Retired pastor Sondra Willobee reminds us to receive every moment as a gift. The choice is ours. We can open our eyes and trust God rather than live in fear of what may come.
SONDRA WILLOBEE
Retired Pastor, Michigan Conference
“Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten in God’s sight. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows” (Luke 12:6-7, NRSVUE).
Last September, my husband and I were driving home from Grand Rapids after spending the day with our three-year-old granddaughter, Riley, while her parents were at work. We’ve done this every other Friday for several years.
Riley had reached a delightful and exasperating age. Having acquired the smarts and persistence to advocate for her desires, she did just that.
Continually.
Riley wanted two sweet treats for a snack. No jacket when we went to the park. She delayed nap time by various means for half an hour and then didn’t sleep anyway.
“This is why young people have children,” I muttered to Ed during the drive. “I’m too old for this.”
Ed told me we should enjoy it while we can. “Our days with Riley are numbered,” he said. “She goes to Young Fives next fall.”
I counted the days in my mind. Twenty-one, to be exact.
On the same drive home, we discussed other changes in our lives wrought by the passage of time: Hearing aids. Hiring a contractor to replace some facia boards on the second story instead of doing it ourselves. Deciding to fly rather than drive all the way to Washington and Oregon to visit our 49th and 50th states.
While we talked, I kept swatting away a fearful thought. What if we don’t get to take the trip at all? One day, one of us will die, and the other will be left alone.
Morbid, but true.
A colleague reposted a quote by 35-year-old Ukrainian-born actress and self-described mystic Delfina Alden, a quote that was picked up by the blog Mindful Christianity: “The problem is, you think you have time,” Alden said. “On average, we get 80 summers . . . if we’re lucky. Don’t put off the trip. Stop waiting for life to begin. Stay up late with friends. Get up early to watch the sunrise. Catch every sunset. Book the trip. Go on that hike. Go to the beach. Spend time with those you love. Tell them how you feel.”
That’s deep wisdom from someone who’s only thirty-five.
I remember an evening when we talked with friends late into the night, sitting by the fireplace in a cabin beside the Mohican River in Ohio. We looked at our phones and said, “Wait. What? How did it get to be 11 o’clock?” The next morning, we woke to the blue light of falling snowflakes. We marveled at Virginia bluebells poking up through the snow.
But hey, Delfina, there’s a problem. When you get to be “a certain age,” you have to rest up between adventures. After watching Riley, who spends the whole day testing our mettle, we’re pooped. If we had also stayed up late the night before talking with friends, we would have been too tired to drive. Could have crashed the car.
We can’t do every sunrise and every sunset.
We’re not thirty-five.
If anything, getting older sharpens our awareness of what has always been true: Our time on earth is limited. The people we love will leave us. Or we will leave them. We don’t have control over most things that affect us.
80 summers. 21 Fridays.
Ed and Delfina are right. All we can do is choose to receive each moment as a gift. We can choose to trust God rather than live in fear of what may come.
Jesus once said, “Why are you anxious about tomorrow? Today’s trouble is enough for today.” Another time, he said, “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows.”
Several days after that September visit with Riley, Ed and I walked one of our favorite trails. Bright sunshine backlit the petals of wild sunflowers, making the full heads of goldenrod glow. “Would you call this late summer or autumn?” I asked Ed.
Then I wondered if I were in the late summer or the autumn of my life. Could be the winter. Hard to know. It depends on when I die.
80 summers. 21 Fridays.
Then I noticed how the wetlands were bursting with foliage and color, lush and expansive, with yellows, purples, and tinges of scarlet. Some of the cattail plants were starting to release their downy seeds.
I stood in the middle of the path and spread my arms wide.
When fear constricts our vision, God invites us to open our eyes.
In a few weeks, Ed and I will have our last play day with Riley before she starts Young Fives.
Oh, my.
This memory helps, too: One fine summer day, Ed and I paddled our canoes out to Lake Michigan from the Platte River at sunset. To the east, over the land, a clear blue sky trailed edges of pink. To the west, over the water, the horizon was molten gold. Ed snapped a picture of my canoe silhouetted against all that wondrous light.
God’s love is the vast water on which we paddle. Limitless. We can trust the water to hold us up. Whatever comes.
May you know today that you are not forgotten by God. May you savor each moment, sunrise or sunset. May you move without fear toward the horizons of your life.
The Rev. Sondra Willobee is a retired elder, last serving as lead pastor at South Lyon: First UMC. She wrote articles for The Michigan Christian Advocate, FaithLink, and Linktionary, and is the author of The Write Stuff: Crafting Sermons That Capture and Convince (2009). You can also read her blog, sondrawillobee.com/blog.
Last Updated on August 5, 2025