It’s one of the most important questions of all: How do you spend your time?
Lost in space and time, few of us pause to reflect on how we spend or waste the precious commodity of all — the hours, days and years we have on this earth. Life speeds by until one day we find little time remaining. Only then are we more mindful of its passage.
Some run frantically thinking there is not enough time to complete everything on their to-do lists, only to discover that the more they think they accomplish, the more tasks remain ahead. Racing through life, they wake up near the end wondering what they really accomplished, having spent most of their time accumulating things but not taking care of themselves and their relationships.
Others barely run at all, sinking into daily routines, oblivious of what’s around them and unaware of what’s inside themselves. They exist by skimming over the depths.
There are two Greek words that unlock a deeper understanding of time — “chronos” and “kairos.” Chronos is quantitative, measured by our clocks and calendars. Kairos is qualitative, measured by those moments when we feel something far deeper has happened.
Chronos is the one most of us use to measure time, believing it to be the most accurate. But it’s not. Time is relative to our perceptions of it. Consider this common example: you are boiling an egg for three minutes but as you wait for it to boil. It feels much longer than three minutes. Time is not fixed but measured by your perceptions.
Everyone has a kairos moment or two, not always remembered when they happen but “moments recollected in tranquility,” William Wordsworth’s description for poetry. Kairos feels especially significant, perhaps when a baby is born or a personal accomplishment is reached or someone we love dies. These kinds of moments enter deep inside us.
One kairos moment in my life arose in memory years later and resulted in a short story, “The Tannery Nine.” I grew up in Philadelphia, where I played baseball on a back street, dodging cars and marking bases in chalk. My parents decided for me to learn about a different part of the country and sent me south for a summer with my brother.
Knowing my interest in baseball (my youthful goal then was to play second base for the Philadelphia Phillies), my brother signed me up in a church softball league where I ended up — you guessed it, playing second base.
The team I played on was in a very rural area where the main source of employment was a tannery. It was a very poor community. Their baseball team members made their own uniforms and gloves and shared one bat.
I’m sure they were suspicious of me in the beginning, wondering what this kid with a new glove was doing playing for them. They put me at second base, where they figured I could do the least damage, and batted me ninth in the order, where they figured I might do the least harm to their cause. It took time for them to accept me as a team member and for me to accept them.
Our team made it to the final game to decide the winner of the church softball league. The opposing team from town had fancy uniforms and many new gloves. The game was played in their field. I remember they even had a scoreboard where scores were posted every inning.
Here’s the kairos moment that took me decades to decide its significance. We were winning by a run. The town team had the bases loaded with two out in the ninth inning. Their cleanup hitter was up. He hit a sizzling line drive my way. For a minute I froze, but at the last second jumped as high as I could, my glove raised. The ball hit my glove, and though it almost fell out, I held on and we won.
My teammates raced to celebrate with me, the team I learned to call the Tannery Nine. We celebrated afterwards with a veritable feast — me, a city kid with a fancy glove sealing the victory.
I’ve accomplished some good things in my life, but looking back none gave me as much satisfaction as helping this team win. It was life turned upside down, the rich and powerful on the losing side. It was a modern day parable made real.
Thinking back, this experience gives me hope that all the barriers we erect between people come down when we work together toward a common goal — surely a lesson sorely needed in our time.
In the 1746 “Poor Richard’s Almanack,” Ben Franklin. a practical philosopher, summed the importance of time in our lives, both chronic and kairos: “Dost thou love life? Then do not squander Time; for that’s the Stuff Life is made of.”
John C. Morgan is an educator and author who writes about ethical issues and concerns. He can be reached at drjcm1000@yahoo.com
