Time and Money | Anita Mathias: Dreaming Beneath the Spires

A very pink Irene and I hiking in the Everglades National Park, Florida

“Time” and “Money.” Titles of two very successful US magazines. And two of most people’s biggest preoccupations.

And that’s not a bad thing, necessarily. I know people who have one –or even both–of these preoccupations removed from their lives–and they are NOT happier for it.

I have friends and relatives who have plenty of money, and so do not work. But are left with a lot of restless, undirected energy.

And worse, and almost unthinkable to me, I have acquaintances and relatives for whom time hangs heavy–who do not have anything pressing, compelling or interesting to do with their time. And who are consequently sad and lethargic.

Not having as much as we might wish of either time or money adds the adrenalin and slight stress to our days which makes them more interesting.
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I really hate the axiom, “Time is money.” Not that I deny it. It’s true in the way the E.M. Forster says, “Yes, oh dear, yes, the novel tells a story.”

And time is partly for taking our five talents and making them ten, as in the Parable of the Talents.

Though the idea that “time is money” adds an element of stress and poison to it. Because time is for so much more than making or saving money. It is for us to love God. To love people. To enjoy nature. To enjoy ourselves. To be happy.
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I discovered the time-money connection again today. Or maybe organization=money.

Somehow, in one of these sexist bastions that persist even in families who pride themselves in thinking for themselves– unconventionally when necessary–the assumption was made that the mother was genetically best suited for mending.

And so, when we moved in to our home almost 5 years ago, and Roy and the girls brought me shirts which needed buttons, or uniform which needed hemming, I pointed to the shower in our bedroom, in which there was a plastic crate, and said “Toss it there.” And so over 5 years, people have kept tossing clothes which needed seams or hems reinforced or buttons sown. As the pile grew and grew, it looked more and more daunting, like more than an hour’s work. I guess I procrastinated stopping everything to make that hour.
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Yesterday, on our weekly home loving and odd job day, Friday I decide to deal with it.

I can say one thing in favour of massive procrastination: It immensely reduces your work load.

Irene was six when she started tossing things into the boxes in the shower. I find all sorts of cute girlie pink dresses. She is now a cool teen, who lives in her Gap skinny jeans, and Zara tops.

Okay, the dresses go into the Oxfam bag. Ethereal little Laura Ashley creations. Her once favourite dresses from Monsoon which have a trailing hem. Lots of bits of school uniform. We evidently had forgotten that they lived in the shower, and had bought more expensive school uniform. Ouch!

5 shirts of Roy’s. “Roy,” I say firmly, “Let’s sort this out once and for all. Women do not have a gene for sewing buttons. It’s not like child-rearing or breast-feeding. Your fingers are as competent as mine.”

“Don’t be mean,” he says plaintively. “You know I hate mending. I have so many more interesting things to do.” “Ditto. Ditto,” I say, firmly. And so he sews his own buttons on, and now has 5 additional shirts.

Wow!

And I, I discover at the bottom, clothes I had forgotten I ever owned. Three pairs of favourite cords which lost buttons at the period of stress/comfort eating/weight gain when we moved in here. They are mended, and fit me!! I also now own a refound cloth carry bag, a sweater, and a pj top. However, I had replaced them, forgetting they were in the shower, and now my drawers are bulgy again But that’s tomorrow’s problem, when I might again need to cut off my nose to make more room on my face, in Irene’s phrase.

So, we ask the cleaner to clean out the shower. “Does it work? ” he asks surprised. “Of course, it works,” we say. “We started chucking clothes to mend in there five years ago, and so have never used it. The expression on his face makes us laugh, and he laughs too.
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Last time and money thought, and I think our lives would have been happier if had sorted this out earlier. Time is always more precious than money, because money spent can be earned again, and money earned can be used to buy time (by farming out whatever work can be farmed out, cleaning, housekeeping chores, gardening, business admin).

And I think the best use of time is to ask God what he wants you to do with it–and then go do that.