First Wednesday of Advent: The Days In Between
Teach us to number our days,
that we may gain a heart of wisdom.
Relent, Lord! How long will it be?
Have compassion on your servants.
Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love,
that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
for as many years as we have seen trouble.
May your deeds be shown to your servants,
your splendor to their children.
May the favor of the Lord our God rest on us;
establish the work of our hands for us—
yes, establish the work of our hands.
—Psalm 90: 12-17
I remember my parents telling me about how they celebrated their birthdays when they were growing up. Or, in my dad’s case, how they didn’t.
For my mom, birthday celebrations on the farm in Eighty Four, Pennsylvania were a big deal. She was the oldest of two siblings, and I imagine she and my Uncle John were especially celebrated because of the challenges my grandmother faced in bringing those two pregnancies to fruition. I know Grandma suffered at least three miscarriages, which must have been heartbreaking to both her and Grandpa.
Meanwhile, a few miles away in the coal mining town of Ellsworth, my dad experienced something very different. He recounted a memory of sitting around the kitchen table with his parents and however many of his 11 siblings happened to be at home, when one of them suddenly exclaimed, “Hey! Wasn’t yesterday Johnny’s birthday?” A chorus of “happy birthdays!” lasted maybe 30 seconds before everyone resumed eating and moved on to other topics of conversation.
I’m happy to report that in our house growing up, Mom’s way of celebrating birthdays won the day. But now that my parents are both gone, I wrestle with what it means to celebrate their birthdays and to commemorate the days that I said my reluctant goodbyes.
When people ask me how old my mom was when she died, I say she was 64—but she died on October 17, seven days before she would have turned 65.
I will soon mark the anniversary of my dad’s death, two days after Christmas. He was 72 years old when he died, but in a little more than three months, he would have turned 73.
What makes me want to round those numbers up, to add a few days or weeks to their lives? Both of my parents lived for more years than many do—and not nearly as long as I wish they had.
“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
As proficient as I’ve become at numbering my parents’ days, I am ever more aware of my own mortality, of the gift of every day the Lord has allowed me to exist. In late September, I celebrated my second-to-last 50-something birthday—I now have a clear view of 60 coming around the bend.
A week later, I had to choose between attending my 40th high school reunion and the 50th anniversary celebration of campus ministry to Gannon University students through the Kirk House, where I served more than three decades ago.
The very thought of these events caused me to reflect on the reality that I have already lived more of my allotted days than I have ahead of me. How have I spent those days? How will I live the ones to come, however many there may be? Have I gained that coveted heart of wisdom?
I chose to attend the Kirk House celebration, because those few years spent in Erie, living in community with college students, was key in God “establishing the work of my hands.” While the five years I did hands-on campus ministry are outnumbered by the 31 years (and counting) I’ve worked in a supporting role of the same mission, they are all of a piece.
They have all been, in one way or another, about pointing to the first coming of Jesus Christ and preparing for the next. And figuring out how to live out the days in between.
My prayer during this Advent season—this in-between time—is that I wake up to the gift of each day I am granted and that I pay attention to the work God has given me to do. For as many days as the Lord sees fit—be they my mother’s 64 years and 355 days, my father’s 72 years and three months and eight days—or something less or something more.
Lord, teach me to number my days.
—Amy Maczuzak works as Senior Editor and a member of the Marketing & Communications Team of the CCO. She also serves as an editor of the CCO Advent Devotional.
that we may gain a heart of wisdom.
Relent, Lord! How long will it be?
Have compassion on your servants.
Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love,
that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
for as many years as we have seen trouble.
May your deeds be shown to your servants,
your splendor to their children.
May the favor of the Lord our God rest on us;
establish the work of our hands for us—
yes, establish the work of our hands.
—Psalm 90: 12-17
I remember my parents telling me about how they celebrated their birthdays when they were growing up. Or, in my dad’s case, how they didn’t.
For my mom, birthday celebrations on the farm in Eighty Four, Pennsylvania were a big deal. She was the oldest of two siblings, and I imagine she and my Uncle John were especially celebrated because of the challenges my grandmother faced in bringing those two pregnancies to fruition. I know Grandma suffered at least three miscarriages, which must have been heartbreaking to both her and Grandpa.
Meanwhile, a few miles away in the coal mining town of Ellsworth, my dad experienced something very different. He recounted a memory of sitting around the kitchen table with his parents and however many of his 11 siblings happened to be at home, when one of them suddenly exclaimed, “Hey! Wasn’t yesterday Johnny’s birthday?” A chorus of “happy birthdays!” lasted maybe 30 seconds before everyone resumed eating and moved on to other topics of conversation.
I’m happy to report that in our house growing up, Mom’s way of celebrating birthdays won the day. But now that my parents are both gone, I wrestle with what it means to celebrate their birthdays and to commemorate the days that I said my reluctant goodbyes.
When people ask me how old my mom was when she died, I say she was 64—but she died on October 17, seven days before she would have turned 65.
I will soon mark the anniversary of my dad’s death, two days after Christmas. He was 72 years old when he died, but in a little more than three months, he would have turned 73.
What makes me want to round those numbers up, to add a few days or weeks to their lives? Both of my parents lived for more years than many do—and not nearly as long as I wish they had.
“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
As proficient as I’ve become at numbering my parents’ days, I am ever more aware of my own mortality, of the gift of every day the Lord has allowed me to exist. In late September, I celebrated my second-to-last 50-something birthday—I now have a clear view of 60 coming around the bend.
A week later, I had to choose between attending my 40th high school reunion and the 50th anniversary celebration of campus ministry to Gannon University students through the Kirk House, where I served more than three decades ago.
The very thought of these events caused me to reflect on the reality that I have already lived more of my allotted days than I have ahead of me. How have I spent those days? How will I live the ones to come, however many there may be? Have I gained that coveted heart of wisdom?
I chose to attend the Kirk House celebration, because those few years spent in Erie, living in community with college students, was key in God “establishing the work of my hands.” While the five years I did hands-on campus ministry are outnumbered by the 31 years (and counting) I’ve worked in a supporting role of the same mission, they are all of a piece.
They have all been, in one way or another, about pointing to the first coming of Jesus Christ and preparing for the next. And figuring out how to live out the days in between.
My prayer during this Advent season—this in-between time—is that I wake up to the gift of each day I am granted and that I pay attention to the work God has given me to do. For as many days as the Lord sees fit—be they my mother’s 64 years and 355 days, my father’s 72 years and three months and eight days—or something less or something more.
Lord, teach me to number my days.
—Amy Maczuzak works as Senior Editor and a member of the Marketing & Communications Team of the CCO. She also serves as an editor of the CCO Advent Devotional.