The Speed of Life and the Stillness of God

With Christmas just passing, I marvel at how quickly each holiday arrives. It seems like every conversation lately includes, “Can you believe it’s almost 2026?” In our adult years, the days, weeks, months, and years seem to collapse into each other like dominoes falling too fast to watch.

As a child, I remember time standing still. The month leading up to Christmas felt like an eternity. In elementary school, I swear the minute hand on that old classroom clock actually moved backward before moving forward. Days felt heavy and rooted, like we were stuck in place, waiting for life to happen.

Back then, we just wanted the future to hurry up — birthdays, holidays, milestones. They couldn’t come fast enough. But now, as an adult, the future arrives like a freight train — birthdays, anniversaries, life moments showing up at record pace as if someone hit fast-forward on our lives.

I remember older adults telling me, “Just wait until you have kids — time flies.” I shrugged it off. What did these old fogies know about the speed of my life? Why were they so concerned about time anyway?

Now I understand:

As children, we live in the present. As adults, we live in the next thing.

As kids, we didn’t carry the weight of mortgages, paychecks, doctor appointments, or expectations. Our lives were uncluttered. Presence wasn’t a spiritual discipline — it was our natural state. We weren’t anxious about tomorrow because we didn’t know enough to be.

As adults, we pick up the world piece by piece, and with each piece, time seems to move faster. We’re not just living life — we’re managing it. And in that management, we drift from the very thing children have without trying: a heart anchored to now.

A Lesson in the Aisles of Sam’s Club

Just the other day, I was at Sam’s Club. The place was packed — carts everywhere, shoppers on missions, the hustle and bustle of last-minute Christmas prep. It felt like being dropped into a human ant farm: no eye contact, just forward motion.

Then I heard something almost out of place — laughter.

I looked up and saw two young boys playing tag in the aisles, dodging displays like it was an obstacle course. Their laughter echoed like bells across the concrete floor. Other shoppers were annoyed, tightening their faces and steering their carts like they were navigating a disaster.

But for a hot second, I envied those boys.

In the middle of holiday pressure, there they were — playing. In a warehouse store of all places, they had created a playground. For them, time stood still. They weren’t thinking about where to be next. They were exactly where they were, and somehow, that made it sacred.

Their joy was a gift — a reminder — a glimpse of our childhood selves before life got heavy.

It made me wonder: When did we stop laughing in the aisles?

Becoming Like Them Again

Maybe that’s why Jesus told us to become like little children.
Not to be silly or irresponsible, but to remember how to be where our feet are.
To notice joy.
To laugh in unexpected places.
To stop sprinting toward the next thing long enough to live the thing we are actually in.

Time may not truly move faster.
Maybe we just stopped being present enough to feel it.

So perhaps the goal isn’t to slow time down — maybe that was never the point.
Maybe the invitation is to slow ourselves down.
To see the Sam’s Club aisle as holy ground.
To hear laughter as God’s reminder.
To remember that eternity isn’t later — it’s now.

Time stood still once.
And by grace, it can again.

“Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children,
you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”
— Matthew 18:3