Living in the 200-year present

Think of the birth year of the oldest person you know, and then to the end of the likely lifespan of the youngest person you know. This is your 200-year present: your lifetime is part of a social fabric which spans two centuries.

I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a parent say, “the days are long, but the years are short” (usually said with sighing exasperation if they are within said days, or nostalgic relief if they are beyond them). In the immediacy of the days and weeks, we lose sight of the years and decades. It’s something I remind myself of when I review each year and plan for the next – while we overestimate what we can do in a day, we underestimate what we can do in a year.

I hope to live in a way that honours the 200-year present, to take the long view. There’s a song we’ve been learning at choir called Ba Bethandaza. It’s a traditional Zulu song which translates:

“We are as we are because of prayer. The Mothers of yesteryear used to pray.”

Isn’t that beautiful?

Prayer, like this one says, is an investment in a future that’s not our own. My friend Molly wrote in a letter to me last year that one of the things she considers when making a life decision is whether it’s something she is ready to invest in in terms of prayer. It’s something that’s stuck with me.

One of the places I am doing this in my life, is in leading a youth group. It’s often not what I feel like doing, partly because it’s not been something I’ve felt very good at.

However, recognising that one of the privileges/dangers of being an adult is that you can remove yourself from the situations you don’t want to be incompetent in if you really want to, and knowing that I remember more of what we did at youth than I remember from school, it’s something I have decided I am willing to pray about. Having adults in your life as teen that aren’t paid to care is a gift I was given, and it’s one I hope to pay forward through the years.

A month or so ago now, we planted sunflower seeds at youth, and in that same time, one of the youth has started calling me “Raquel”. It’s a nickname given in the teenager sense of “yeah ok, I’ve decided you’re pretty sound” (and I am quietly thrilled about it!). I’m now watching the leaves of the sunflower seeds emerge, and letting them be a visual reminder of the prayers I’m investing, the joy of watching new things grow, and the continued choice to keep caring and taking the long view.

“The Mothers of yesteryear used to pray“. Isn’t that beautiful?