A Submarine Through the Dark Waters of Time

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Redeeming the Quiet Hours

Time has a way of slipping through your fingers without ever making a sound. Not in big dramatic moments, but in quiet ones — a few scrolls, a few “I’ll do it later,” a few harmless distractions that slowly reshape who you are without asking permission.

If we’re honest, the greatest danger most believers face isn’t open rebellion.

It’s slow drift.

Quiet drift.

The kind that steals ten minutes here, an evening there, until your days feel thinner than they used to… and your soul feels thinner too.

When Time Felt Endless

When I was a boy, I didn’t think much about time. I had so much of it I almost swam in it. Long mornings by the fishing pond, watching the fog lift off the water like a curtain revealing the day. The air smelled like mud and summer, and the only thing on my mind was whether the fish were biting.

Afternoons felt like entire lifetimes. I wandered through the woods with a stick in my hand, imagining I was tracking deer or searching for hidden trails. Every little sound meant something. A rustle in the leaves. A snapping twig. A bird calling out from deep in the trees. I could walk for hours, not because I was trying to get anywhere, but simply because the world felt wide and I had all the time I needed to explore it.

Back then, time wasn’t precious — it was simply plentiful. As common as sunshine. As ordinary as dirt. I never thought about losing it. I never imagined a day when I’d look back on those slow hours and ache for them. Childhood gives you this illusion that time grows on trees.

It doesn’t.

When Time Began to Sink

Somewhere along the way, life changed. Responsibilities multiplied. Decisions grew heavier. Days grew crowded.

A simple errand could derail an entire morning. A trip to the government office became two trips, then three, with signatures missing, papers misfiled, lines that wrapped like hallways in a maze, and my frustration simmering just beneath the skin. All the while, the list of things I hoped to do — important things, meaningful things — sat untouched.

Then came the moments that hit deeper than inconvenience:

Watching my kids grow faster than I could hold on to…

Realizing whole years slipped by without permission…

Feeling tears I didn’t expect, standing in the quiet hallway of my own home, thinking about time I could never get back.

Life became something I had to manage instead of something I was living. I found myself squeezing every hour the way a naval commander might chart a submarine through dark waters — carefully, anxiously, never enough room to rest, always alert so I wouldn’t crash into something I didn’t see coming.

And as the pressure increased, something else quietly crept in.

The desire to unwind.

Not in a healthy, restorative way — but in that glazed-over, “just let me disappear for a minute” kind of way.

A video here.

A scroll there.

One harmless clip.

Then another.

And another.

It felt like a release… but it wasn’t.

It was escape.

And escape feels sweet — the way antifreeze tastes sweet to a thirsty cat.

Comforting at first… quietly poisonous after.

Every sip eats a small piece of the soul.

The Simple Realization I Tried to Ignore

Somewhere in those cycles of pressure and escape, I had to face a truth that I didn’t want to admit:

Wasted time doesn’t just waste minutes — it wastes the person you’re becoming.

It dulls the heart.

It quiets spiritual hunger.

It erodes the connection between you and God in ways that are so gentle you barely feel them happening.

Not because you’re rebelling.

Not because you’re choosing sin.

But because you’re choosing nothing.

Nothingness, repeated often enough, becomes its own kind of spiritual enemy.

A Biblical Moment That Speaks Into This Quiet Battle

The older I’ve grown, the more I think about a simple prayer Moses prayed near the end of his life:

“Teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.”

Moses wasn’t counting hours on a calendar.

He wasn’t calculating productivity or setting goals.

He was speaking as a man who had seen entire decades slip into the wilderness because of unbelief — wasted time he could never get back.

He knew what it meant to watch people walk in circles.

He knew what it felt like to see years swallowed by distraction, discouragement, fear, excuses, and spiritual drifting.

And he knew time was too precious, too fragile, too fleeting to treat lightly.

So he prayed something painfully honest:

“Lord, teach us to value our days. Teach us to see them rightly. Teach us how to live before they’re gone.”

That prayer has followed me like a gentle companion through the years.

Not to make me anxious.

Not to make me frantic.

But to make me aware.

To help me see that time isn’t a possession — it’s a trust.

And trusts can be neglected just as easily as fields or friendships or marriages.

Moses learned the hard way. He had watched people assume tomorrow would always come. He had watched years dissolve into desert dust. And when he finally asked God for wisdom, he asked for it in the language of time.

The Inner Life Is Always the First to Feel Neglect

Here’s something I’ve noticed in myself:

I don’t fall apart all at once.

I fray.

A little here.

A little there.

A little loss of focus.

A little neglect of prayer.

A little drifting from Scripture.

A little too much escape.

A little too little attention.

Small things, almost invisible on their own.

But string them together and you’ve woven a rope strong enough to pull you away from God without ever meaning to leave Him.

The vineyard of the soul rarely collapses in a single day.

It collapses through small delays, small distractions, small “laters.”

And by the time you notice the thorns growing, they’re already tangled deep.

But There Is Another Way to Live

The good news — and there is good news — is that time can be redeemed.

Not by living faster.

Not by squeezing more into the day.

Not by becoming some kind of spiritual productivity machine.

Redeeming time simply means choosing purpose over drift, even in small ways.

It’s choosing presence over escape.

Choosing prayer over scrolling.

Choosing stillness over noise.

Choosing moments that feed your soul instead of numb it.

And it starts small.

Always small.

One honest prayer whispered before you get out of bed.

One verse read slowly instead of a dozen read quickly.

One quiet walk.

One moment of gratitude.

One evening spent talking to someone you love instead of disappearing into a glowing screen.

Small things don’t seem powerful — until you realize they rebuild what was quietly falling apart.

Small things are how God repairs the soul.

Making Peace With Your Hours

I’ve learned that guilt doesn’t redeem anything.

Shame doesn’t redeem anything.

Trying harder doesn’t redeem anything.

What redeems time is simply returning to God in the small moments.

Letting Him shape the day.

Letting Him speak into the quiet places.

Letting Him teach you how to see your hours not as burdens to manage, but as gifts to receive.

Because time, for all its slipping and shrinking and surprising, is still one of God’s most generous gifts.

Not because we control it — but because we get to live inside it.

A Quiet Encouragement

If you feel like you’ve wasted years — God can still redeem the ones ahead.

If you feel like your habits have thinned your soul — you can begin again in the smallest of ways.

If you feel like drifting has become your default — one whisper of a prayer can change direction.

You don’t need a new year, a new schedule, or a new personality.

You only need a new moment:

the moment you say, “Lord, teach me to number my days.”

Not count them.

Value them.

Childhood taught me how big a day can feel.

Adulthood taught me how quickly it can disappear.

But faith has taught me something deeper still:

Time becomes holy when we stop trying to control it and simply hand it back to God.

Your hours don’t have to be impressive.

They don’t have to be smooth or productive.

They just have to be surrendered.

He takes even the broken pieces — the distracted days, the tired evenings, the moments you regret — and He works with them. He always has. He always will.

God doesn’t throw away time.

And He doesn’t throw away you.

So breathe for a moment.

Look at the day in front of you with mercy.

And take one quiet step toward Him.

It doesn’t need to be big.

It doesn’t need to be loud.

It just needs to be real.

And that is enough.