Holding Time with Tenderness

This morning’s quote said, “If you love life, don’t waste time, for time is what life is made up of.” It made me think, what if you’re not loving life right now. What if the trials and tribulations of mortality are weighing so heavily that time doesn’t feel like a gift but something you’re just trying to get through. What then.

I think sometimes these quotes assume a lightness that real life doesn’t always offer. They speak to the version of us that has energy, clarity, and joy. But there are seasons when loving life feels out of reach, when the weight of responsibility, grief, exhaustion, and uncertainty makes time feel more like something to endure than something to cherish.

In those moments, it isn’t about wasting time or loving time. It’s about surviving it. It’s about doing the next small thing, taking the next breath, and trusting that love for life can return in its own quiet way.

And even in the heaviness, I know logically that my life is a gift and that my life has a plan. I know that part of that plan includes valleys to walk through and mountains to climb, places that stretch me and shape me even when I don’t feel strong enough for the journey.

And I believe God understands these seasons more than I do. He sees the weight I carry, and He wants me to give myself grace. Even when the trials feel heavy, life is still a gift to be treasured, because within the hard times there is always something to learn. Through these experiences I hope I am becoming more understanding, more compassionate, more patient, more like Him.

And maybe part of this really is a state of mind, but not in the simple way people sometimes say it. A tired mind, a grieving mind, a stretched‑thin mind will feel life differently than a rested one. God knows that. He doesn’t expect me to force joy or pretend that the weight isn’t real. He meets me in the state of mind I’m in and reminds me that grace is allowed here. Grace is needed here.

Maybe the deeper truth is that life isn’t only made of the time we love. It’s also made of the time we struggle through, the time we question, the time we feel lost. Those moments count too. They shape us just as much as the bright ones.

And maybe loving life doesn’t mean feeling happy or inspired every day. Maybe it means honoring the fact that we’re still here, still trying, still showing up even when the weight is heavy. That, in its own way, is a form of love.

Maybe the invitation isn’t to love every moment of life but to stay open to the possibility that love can return, even in seasons when it feels far away. Maybe it’s enough, for now, to honor the truth of where you are and to trust that heaviness doesn’t mean failure. It simply means you’re human.

Every day, every week, every month still carries a similar journey, like riding a roller coaster in the dark. I can partially anticipate the turns, the highs and lows, the sudden jerks and the quiet pauses, but I still don’t always know what’s coming next. Even so, I know I have to keep holding to the iron rod that steadies me and guides me toward where I want to go. And like so many other things in my life, I need to trust God. He is the one who strengthens my spiritual vision, helping me see more clearly and view my life through a healthier, more faith‑filled perspective. And maybe that’s the quiet miracle in all of this — that even in the dark, even in the uncertainty, I am still being led toward something good.

I believe all of this, but as the saying goes, it’s always easier said than done.