Under the Sun – Among the Ruins
“Teach us to number our days,
that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
— Psalm 90:12
Meditative Exposition
Moments are shy things.
They arrive quietly, disappear quickly, and seldom announce themselves as holy.
But every one of them — even the unwanted ones — carries something of eternity folded inside.
The wise learn to live as collectors of moments rather than conquerors of time.
They walk slowly, speak softly, listen deeply.
They do not clutch at permanence, but receive the present as a sacrament.
The fool, says Qoheleth, “never has enough.”
He is always chasing the next horizon, the next feeling, the next proof that he is alive.
But the pilgrim learns another way: to stop, to breathe, to say — this, too, is gift.
Time is the first creature, the one through which all others pass.
We cannot master it; we can only move within it.
Our sin has made us restless in its flow —
we want to jump ahead or linger behind.
But grace is the art of being here.
God meets us not in our imagined tomorrows or re-lived yesterdays,
but in the unrepeatable now —
the sliver of light between was and will be.
To live with awareness of that meeting is to begin to live eternally, even under the sun.
To number our days is not to count them down,
but to weigh them as precious.
It is to feel time not as loss, but as offering.
When Moses prayed, “Teach us to number our days,”
he was asking for more than arithmetic.
He was asking to see his own life as fragile and yet full —
to live every breath with reverence.
Each moment carries both brevity and abundance:
the child’s laughter, the sound of rain,
the word left unsaid that could have healed,
the long look between friends who understand without speech.
The gift of the moment is not in its duration,
but in its depth —
the soul’s capacity to receive what it holds.
Perhaps this is what Jesus meant when He said,
“Do not worry about tomorrow.”
The anxious heart divides its worship —
part for today, part for the next imagined burden.
But the faithful heart learns to keep company with God one breath at a time.
To be present, truly present,
is to confess that the world is not held together by our striving.
It is to let the present tense of grace become the measure of our days.
Moments cannot be kept; they can only be offered back.
The wise receive them, bless them, and let them pass —
trusting that the Giver remembers what we cannot hold.
So when you rise,
let morning light fall across your face and call it a gift.
When you eat, call it holy.
When you fail, call it a teacher.
When you breathe, call it worship.
This is the pilgrimage of time:
to live within the vapor without losing the wonder.
Prayer of Lament and Presence
Eternal Father,
You hold all my days,
yet give them to me one by one.
Forgive my restless hurry,
my fear of missing, my greed for more.
Teach me to receive the present as grace,
to see even fleeting hours as sacred ground.
When the past accuses or the future overwhelms,
draw me back to Your now —
the mercy that meets me here.
Let this breath be prayer enough.
Amen.
Selah Box
Scripture Reading:
Psalm 90; Matthew 6:25–34; Ecclesiastes 3:1–14; Philippians 4:11–13
Reflective Question:
What moment today have you already dismissed as ordinary?
How might you reenter it as a meeting place with God?
Practice:
Pause at the turning points of your day —
when entering a room, beginning a task, or meeting a person.
Whisper: “This moment is gift.”
Let awareness become worship.
Every hard journey is eased by good companions, and your steps alongside mine are a gift to me.
Should you wish, you may contribute some coin to the Pilgrim’s Purse.
