The Patience of a Pocket Watch
Table Talk
Setting the Table
You are welcome here. Come just as you are, bringing whatever is on your heart today. Take a few moments and allow yourself to just be. Take a couple deep breaths, grab yourself a cup of coffee, light a candle, do something that brings you comfort. Allow yourself to be present in this moment.
What if time isn’t something to manage, but something to enter—slowly enough to notice what is awakening within and around you?
Psalm 46:10
Be still, and know that I am God.
Lamentations 3:22–23
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end.
It is not enough to be busy. So are the ants. The question is: What are we busy about?
—Henry David Thoreau
How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.
— Annie Dillard
Food For Thought
I found my grandfather’s pocket watch this week—or maybe it’s more accurate to say I noticed it again. It has been with me for years, usually resting quietly on the desk in my office/music room, a desk that once belonged to him as well. Both objects have been part of my space for a long time, yet somehow they had blended into the background of the everyday. For reasons I can’t quite explain, I picked up the watch and decided to wind it. I’m not sure why that impulse hadn’t come to me before, but sometimes those small nudges arrive without warning. And when they do, it feels right to follow them.
To my surprise, the watch worked perfectly. I wound it, listened for a moment, and heard the steady ticking come to life. It kept time all day, as if it had simply been waiting for someone to ask it to begin again. There was something quietly profound about that—this object, carried through generations, still faithful to its purpose, still marking the passage of time with patience and precision.
During the Lenten season, I had been trying to be more mindful of my phone usage. Like many people, I often reach for my phone without thinking, and one of the most common reasons is simply to check the time. It’s such a small habit, but it pulls attention away again and again. A simple solution, of course, is to have a clock nearby. Strangely enough, I don’t keep clocks around the house, aside from the alarm clock in my bedroom—and even that feels intrusive. I’ve never been one for abrupt awakenings. I tend to wake slowly, easing into the day.
I remember how my father and I used to start our mornings when I was young. We would sit on opposite ends of the couch, not speaking, just staring quietly into space. We jokingly called it “meditation time,” though at the time I didn’t fully understand how meaningful that quiet was. Looking back, I’m not entirely sure how we ever made it to school on time. But I do know that those moments of stillness shaped something in me.
These days, I have my own version of that rhythm. I wake around 6:30 in the morning, usually to the gentle presence of the dog nudging me awake. We share a quiet moment before I get up, make coffee, and sit to watch the world slowly come to life. There’s no rush. The light changes gradually, the air shifts, and the birds begin to sing—not all at once, but in a kind of unfolding. It’s a slow awakening, and I’ve come to treasure it.
The pocket watch, in its steady ticking, has made me think differently about time. So often, we treat time as something to mark and measure—something to divide into segments as we move from one task or obligation to the next. We glance at a clock, note the hour, and move on, waiting for the next moment, the next event. But perhaps time is not only something to be marked. Perhaps it is something to be entered into.
What if, instead of simply tracking time, we allowed it to shape us? To wake us up gently, the way the morning does? Awakening, after all, is not meant to be a jolt into action, a sudden demand to do something. It is a process. It takes time to become aware, time to notice what is around us, time to reflect and to wonder. And maybe that is where we struggle—because we are not always comfortable with processes that cannot be rushed.
True awakening asks something deeper of us. It invites awareness—not just of the world we can see, but of our place within it. It calls us to consider how we are living, where we are being led, and how we might respond. In that sense, time is not an enemy or a constraint. It is a companion in the slow work of becoming present, becoming attentive, and ultimately, becoming open to something greater than ourselves.
Each morning, take a minute to intentionally begin the day—whether that’s actually winding the pocket watch, stirring your coffee slowly, or opening a window. Let it be a physical act that signals, I’m entering this day, not rushing past it. While you do it, resist the urge to think ahead.
Choose one short period each day—maybe 10–15 minutes—where you don’t check a clock, phone, or schedule. Sit, walk, or simply observe without tracking how long it’s been. Let the moment unfold without measurement. It can feel uncomfortable at first, but that’s part of the point.
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Blessing
God of time and eternity,
Teach me to be still enough to notice Your presence in each unfolding moment. Slow my hurried heart, that I may awaken gently to the life, beauty, and calling set before me today. May I live this day not just marking time, but dwelling fully within it, attentive to You and to the world You love.
Amen.
A little Table Talk for your table...
When you think about your own relationship with time, do you tend to mark it, manage it, or truly enter it—and what shapes that habit in your daily life?
Can you recall a moment when you experienced a slow, gentle awakening—physically, emotionally, or spiritually? What made that moment different from the usual pace of your life?
What small, intentional practice might help you become more present to God, yourself, and others in the ordinary rhythms of your day?
Try taking it to the Kids Table...
What are some ways we usually keep track of time (like clocks or phones)? Do you think time always has to feel rushed, or can it feel slow and calm, too?
Can you think of a time when you woke up slowly and felt peaceful—maybe hearing birds, being cozy, or just being quiet? What did that feel like?
What is one small thing you could do each day to help you slow down and notice what’s around you—like people, nature, or even how you’re feeling?
Meet This WEek’s Writer...
Khette Cox is an ordained minister who works as a chaplain in healthcare, and in her spare time is learning the piano, enjoys watching live music, and loves life with humor and a sense of the sacred. She lives in Old Hickory, TN where you will probably find her on her front porch with Felix, her Newfie mix, waving at her neighbors.
To hear more from Khette throughout the week, follow along on our Instagram!