Tick-Tock

 August 25, 2023

It’s bedtime at the Baileys. The day’s work is done, and I’ve finished with my Friday night routine; the clocks are all wound for the week. Sometimes I forget, and when I remember on Saturday, one or more will have stopped, necessitating not only a winding, but coordinating the chime with the hour. The method required for doing so is different with each clock; sometimes it’s just a matter of pushing the tiny rod that controls the mechanism. Other clocks require me to turn the hands to the next hour, wait for the chimes, and repeat till the time on the clock is the same as the hour at the moment. The grandfather clock is the easiest; I only need to pull the chains for the weights. 

Years ago, a friend made me a wall clock carved out of black walnut with a scene of ducks rising from a pond. Battery operated, I didn’t need to wind it, but it gave a faint tick-tock that drove our granddaughter Abi crazy. On the Fridays when the grandkids would stay overnight, she would take it off the wall and set it in the kitchen because the ticking kept her awake. I never could understand it; I find the steady, rhythmic tick-tocking quite soothing, and have considered leaving one of my antiques to Abi in my will. My friend died some years ago, and I gave this clock to his daughter to give to her son when he’s old enough to appreciate his grandfather’s craftsmanship.

The day will surely come when I’ll wind them for the last time. When that day comes, I don’t know who’ll want these old clocks. They aren’t convenient. They need occasional adjustment. They’re relics of a past long gone. The 1880’s shelf clock with the grandfather clock in our dining room, the old schoolhouse clock and the cast iron shelf clock in the living room, and the large wall clock in our bedroom will in all likelihood end up in auction or at a second-hand store.

My father used to sing a song about grandfather’s clock that “was bought on the morn that the old man was born…but it stopped short, never to run again when the old man died.” All my clocks bring to mind the psalm that says, “My times are in thy hands.” The older I get, the more aware I am of the fleeting nature of this earthly life. My clocks tick by the seconds, reminding me that each of those ticks is a precious moment that will not come my way again, and that I must as Paul said, “redeem the time, for the days are evil.” We too easily forget that life has a goal and a goalpost. Jesus himself is the goal, and that last tick of the clock is the goalpost. I don’t want to reach the latter having neglected the former, so may every tick-tock turn me to Christ.