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It’s almost fall. The wind moves through and we shiver. The boy in the pool who leaned back and moved his arms across the surface, a brief lifespan of gold across the water. He will get his back-to-school hair cut, throw on his backpack, and grow out of his hand-me-down jeans. And the world will shift on its axis, drawing us gently into a cool sunshine, apples in our u-pick bags. There’s no fighting the autumn, friends. It always comes for us.
The Psalmist tells us that “all our days pass away . . . Our days may come to seventy years, or eighty, if our strength endures; yet the best of them are but trouble and sorrow, for they quickly pass, and we fly away.” The answer to that reality? “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” There is a slowness in numbering our days, in choosing our co-rememberers, in celebrating the movement of time in all of its beautiful, achingly true reality.
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5252 ratings
It’s almost fall. The wind moves through and we shiver. The boy in the pool who leaned back and moved his arms across the surface, a brief lifespan of gold across the water. He will get his back-to-school hair cut, throw on his backpack, and grow out of his hand-me-down jeans. And the world will shift on its axis, drawing us gently into a cool sunshine, apples in our u-pick bags. There’s no fighting the autumn, friends. It always comes for us.
The Psalmist tells us that “all our days pass away . . . Our days may come to seventy years, or eighty, if our strength endures; yet the best of them are but trouble and sorrow, for they quickly pass, and we fly away.” The answer to that reality? “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” There is a slowness in numbering our days, in choosing our co-rememberers, in celebrating the movement of time in all of its beautiful, achingly true reality.
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5,059 Listeners