Well, I certainly didn’t think taking my seven
year old to her very first concert was going to ignite such emotion, but
hey, after the week we’ve had in America, I think it was inevitable. And the concert was Taylor Swift. If anyone
knows writing about emotions, it’s that girl.
Chick’s making millions off her emotions. Oh yes, I’m sure it also has a little something
to do with her talent, ambition, and well, the fact that she’s 5 feet 11 inches
tall and strikingly beautiful. Those
legs of hers can’t hurt either – I mean, you’ve got to be kidding me with those
things. It doesn’t matter how much money
you have and who your plastic surgeon is, there’s nobody on earth you can pay
to get legs like that. I’ve mentioned
this before, but its people like Taylor Swift who inspire the question I’m
certain will be my first to God when I make it to heaven. “Lord, don’t you think you could have divvied things up a bit more evenly when you were handing out gifts? Does it really seem fair for one person to have the ability to sing, play multiple instruments, AND look like she belongs on the cover of a magazine? Haven’t you heard of the phrase ‘equal opportunity’?”
Despite the fact that she’s easy to envy and idolize, both of which we are specifically instructed NOT to do by the same God dolling out gifts rather haphazardly, I am now quite a fan of Miss Swift. I didn’t know many of her songs, I had no idea what a production a girl in her early 20’s could put on, and I honestly believe I have permanent hearing damage after the concert, but I’m smitten nonetheless. The child is precious. She seems genuinely thankful for her life and offers some quality messages to her admirers. She knows who her audience is and remains true to them for an entire sixty-minute show. Her outfits were appropriate, as were her lyrics, language, and dancing. The two drinks I had before the show to keep me from panicking about what I was about to expose my daughter to . . . they weren’t even necessary. And hey, although that seven year old I kept up long past bedtime was still asleep at 8:00 the morning after the concert, by that time I had already downloaded the entire Red album, which I will happily listen to now that I know how many catchy songs are on it.
Still, there is a downside to attending a Taylor
Swift concert, and it has nothing to do with the hearing aids guaranteed to be
in your future. The downside is that
while you bop your head and clap your hands to music that can’t help but make
you smile, you look around and realize it’s all moving way too fast. Because in every direction, all you see are little
girls – young, sweet, adorable little girls – who have the whole world at their
fingertips and don’t even know it. My
heart catches in my throat as I picture them now, dancing and screaming
and singing with all the naiveté childhood offers. The endless possibilities, the decades of
opportunity, the unidentified dreams destined for discovery. Those girls dancing and screaming and singing? They have an entire lifetime ahead of them, while I . . . I have already lived much of mine.
The problem with a week in which bombs explode
and workplaces crumble and you find yourself surrounded by the youth you can
never again attain is that it forces you to confront your own mortality. And when I face my own mortality, it isn’t simply
the thoughts of a shortened future I find upsetting. It’s the thoughts of the past, and how much
of it I’ve wasted. How much time have I squandered in anger? How many nights have I spent crying over circumstances beyond my control? How many people have I judged without knowing their story? How many minutes and hours and days have I spent worrying about my finances or my appearance or my reputation?
I’ve had so much time to do the good things, the
right things, and yet, I’ve wasted countless moments doing everything
wrong. I could have been dancing and
screaming and singing and praying and laughing and snuggling and smiling and
helping and serving and hugging and kissing and giggling and teaching and
worshiping and learning and living and . . .
I can hardly catch my breath as I think about
what I’ve done instead. So much wasted time. Why didn’t I make better choices? Why didn’t I do the good things, the right things? Looking back puts a vice grip on my heart, squeezing regret from every cell as I view my life as a montage of misused opportunities.
There is really only one way to live the gift of
each day, and that is to live it in love. Yet, many times . . . most times if I’m truly
honest with myself . . . I make other choices.
I choose to fold laundry instead of reading a book with my daughter. I choose to unload
the dishwasher instead of playing catch with my son. I choose to watch a mindless television show
about a dream kitchen I’ll never have instead of talking to my husband. I choose to serve myself instead of serving others.
I choose all the insignificant things
instead of making the most of every moment.
Of course, I realize the laundry has to be
folded. I know the dishwasher must be
filled and emptied on a regular basis.
The toilets have to be cleaned and the email must be checked and the
groceries need to be purchased. But how
much of my time is spent on these mundane activities? Am I filling up my life with duties that
can’t possibly have a lasting impact on anyone or anything? Am I going about the minutes of each day in
an effort to check off items on my to-do list, while hopes and dreams and
opportunities to love slip by unnoticed?
Time is not limitless. Charlie is halfway to gone and Libby’s feet
are almost the same size as mine. I’ll be forty in less than three years,
which means if I’m lucky, I’ve probably reached the middle of my life. Time is fleeting. It’s speeding and
racing and . . . winning.
I’m running out of time.
I’m running out of time to do the right
things. To make good choices. To spend each day hoping and dreaming and,
most importantly, loving.
This week reminded me of that. Sporting events turned deadly reminded me of
that. Fellow citizens losing their lives
on the job reminded me of that. Taylor Swift, and her audience of girls, most
anticipating 22 while I recollect it, reminded me of that. And while the reminders hold a thousand
heartaches of moments forever lost, they hold endless promise as well. They hold the hope of a future filled with
blessings, as long as I cherish each day for the gift of time it is, and keep
my focus on the one thing that matters most . . . the thing even an inexperienced yet extremely famous singer writes about in every one of her songs. I will not waste even a second of the time I have left, as long as I make sure each of my seconds revolves around love. 
