Who Has Time for That? by Caity Neub
Body fidgeting under my practiced “attentive” stare, twisting a lock of white-blond hair around her finger, my five-year-old is trying to share something desperately vital with me—though she can’t seem to find the words. “Well, I was thinking. . .” she drawls.
I can feel my patience slipping. It’s the middle of the day, not the end, and her meandering explanation is causing me to fidget now. “And?” I query.
“Well, what if we could play outside first, and then watch a show while we eat dinner?”
I smile, but my attentiveness is flickering, touching on a million different topics besides the one that my daughter is expressing.
Who has time for that? I think.
Who has time to listen to a small one’s grand ideas, let alone be the one who makes them happen?
**
Spring air is twisting around us, and the dog and I are out for a walk. Alone. I’m fast-walking, my breaths coming in short gaps, my weary arms tugging urgently on the leash each time my broad-shouldered husky stops to sniff another plant or post or piece of trash. We’re out to get some much-needed exercise; living in cramped spaces keeps both of us tensed, ready to spring.
I break into a light jog, my body longing for speed and progress and release. As my dog stops yet again, I begin to huff in frustration. But that’s when I see it: a cluster of purple crocuses, brilliant and fragile and brand new. Spring has only just begun and there are sure to be more ice storms to come, but here they are: flowers daring to bloom.
Who has time for that? I think, letting my heart rate slow down.
Who has time to notice a bunch of newborn flower petals, opening their faces to the sun? Who has time to slow down long enough to appreciate something that isn’t a result of our own hard work?
**
Head spinning, fingers moving even faster, I can feel my body gyrating with nervous energy. Dinner is not going as planned, and I can feel the clock ticking away the minutes I need in order to wrangle this food into submission.
“Mom! Watch me!”
The cry sets me off, and I have to clamp my lips shut before I holler an impatient reply. Watch you? Haven’t I been watching you all day?
My two boys are jumping off of a wooden stool nearby, grinning and crowing about their achievement. It’s adorable and whimsical and utterly. . .unhelpful.
Who has time for that?
Who has time to watch children do silly, inconsequential things when dinner is falling apart and my entire day is hinging on fractured nerves?
**
Trilling, ever watchful, and alert, my phone lets me know (once again) that I should be paying attention to it. But my phone is a symbol of everything I have left undone: the people I haven’t called or emailed yet, the writing projects left half-finished, the online word and grocery lists, and a million other possibilities that leave me with a caved-in chest just looking at my phone.
But this time, the trilling is alerting me to a text from a friend. She’s outlining a prayer request, something I often ask my friends to share with me. In the moment of busyness, I nearly brush it aside, nearly type a quick response and jerk away from the overwhelming technology in my hands.
Who has time for that?
Who has time to address everyone else’s needs? Who has time to enter into someone else’s life when your own is demanding and full and never-ending?
A thought, a whisper, a yearning hits me, all-too-quickly: What do you have time for, Caity?
The amount of rushing that I do, the length of the lists I scrawl out, the millions of times that I look at the clock during the day—how do I have time for that, and not for this? How do I have time to organize, clean, text, run and yell at my children, but I don’t have time to sit slow and notice?
My hands are still clamped on that phone, and I dance my fingertips across the screen, using this little box for its intended purpose: calling a loved one. I call that friend and we pray together, in this present moment, with connection and courage and a sense of communion, of sharing present worries and joys without that decaying pull that comes when we hurry.
This pausing, this breaking of my time for someone else; this is love.
When a small one shares their grand ideas, it is no small thing to make them happen.
When a trek outdoors reveals hidden treasures, it is no small thing to notice and give thanks.
When a rowdy boy takes a leap of faith from a wooden stool, it is no small thing to encourage and build up his seemingly small efforts—because one day, those muscles and mindsets that he is flexing now will lead him into making new friends, jumping off of diving boards, making responsible business choices, and going to the wild places where God will call him.
Who has time for all of this? I do. I have all the time in the world to show love, to be interrupted, and to be present in my life. To say that I don’t have time for this would be to say that I don’t have time to be loved.
Did you catch that? If you’re always hurrying, never noticing, you won’t have time to be loved by God—you won’t even notice that he does love you. And so your unloved heart will catch and tear as everyone else tries to pull a love and attention out of you that simply isn’t there.
What do you have time for, my friend?
Caity is a young woman who has long wrestled with the tension between standing on God's Word and living in a culture that dethrones God at every step. As a stay-at-home mama, she fills all of her “spare time” with writing, working out, and soaking in God’s Word. She loves to encourage other women to pursue the transformation that God offers, and she does so via her podcast and her soon-to-be-published first book.