“Like Sands Through the Hourglass, So Are the Days of Our Lives”

Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.” Those familiar words, once heard daily in the opening of a television soap opera, took on an entirely different meaning for me recently.

I was attending a homegoing celebration when the pastor, in the midst of delivering the eulogy, spoke those words. And for some reason, they stayed with me.

Long after the service had ended, long after the final prayer had been offered, and long after the last embrace had been shared, I found myself thinking about those words.

“Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.”

I began to picture an hourglass. Two chambers of glass connected by a narrow passage, with tiny grains of sand slowly falling from the top to the bottom. And then it hit me. I am watching the sands of my own life slowly pour through the hourglass of time. And so are you.

Every morning we wake up, another portion of sand has fallen. Every birthday we celebrate, every holiday we gather with family, every funeral we attend, every gray hair we discover, reminds us that the sand is still moving. The troubling thing about an hourglass is that you can see the sand that has already fallen. You can see what remains at the top. But you cannot stop it from falling. And unlike the hourglass sitting on somebody's desk, when the sands of our lives reach the bottom, we don't get to turn it over and start again.

I thought about the years that have already passed through my hourglass. The dreams I once chased. The people I once loved. The friendships I thought would last forever. The opportunities I embraced and, yes, the opportunities I allowed to slip through my fingers.

I thought about the people who were once part of my everyday life but are now only part of my memories. People whose voices I can still hear, whose laughter I can still remember, whose presence I sometimes find myself reaching for, only to be reminded that their hourglass has emptied. And I wondered how many times I had taken the sand for granted. How many days had I wasted worrying about things that never happened? How many nights had I lost sleep over people who weren't losing any sleep over me? How many opportunities had I missed to say, "I love you," "I'm proud of you," "I forgive you," or simply, "Thank you for being part of my life"?

You see, somewhere along life's journey, we begin to understand something our younger selves could never fully appreciate. Time is not just something we spend. Time is something we can never get back.

When we're young, we live as though the top of our hourglass is overflowing. We say, "I'll do it tomorrow." "I'll make that phone call next week." "I'll visit them when I get a chance." "I'll forgive them when I'm ready." "I'll start living when I retire." But tomorrow is not a promise. Next week is not guaranteed. And sometimes the people we keep putting off until later are the very people we end up wishing we had one more moment with.

The tragedy of life is not simply that the sand eventually runs out. The tragedy is allowing so much of it to fall without ever appreciating the gift of having it.

The Bible reminds us in Psalm 90:12: "So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom."

Notice what the Scripture does not say. It doesn't say teach us to count our money. It doesn't say teach us to count our possessions. It doesn't even say teach us to count our accomplishments. It says teach us to number our days. Because you can lose money and make more. You can lose possessions and replace them. You can even lose a job and find another. But when you lose a day, that day is gone forever.

And here's something else I've come to realize. We spend the first half of our lives trying to get somewhere, and often the second half wondering where all the time went. We rush through childhood wanting to be grown. We rush through adulthood trying to become successful. We rush through our working years dreaming about retirement. And then one day, we look in the mirror and discover that the face looking back at us has changed.

The hair is a little grayer. The steps are a little slower. The memories stretch a little farther back than the plans we have ahead. And suddenly, the things we once thought were so important don't seem nearly as important anymore. The titles don't matter as much. The applause doesn't sound as loud. The arguments don't seem worth having. And the need to prove ourselves to everybody begins to fade.

Because when you recognize that the sand is falling, you begin to understand that peace is more valuable than popularity, relationships are more important than recognition, and the love you give will outlive the things you accumulate.

But here's where my faith gives me hope. I don't believe God allows us to see the passing of time simply to make us afraid of dying. I believe He allows us to recognize the passing of time so that we might become more intentional about living.

There is a difference. Some people are so afraid of death that they forget to live. Others are so busy living that they forget they must one day die. Wisdom teaches us to find the balance. To live with purpose. To love without reservation. To forgive without keeping score. To serve without needing recognition. To laugh while we still can. To dance while the music is still playing. To make the phone call. Take the trip. Hug the grandchild. Visit the old friend. Tell somebody what they mean to you. And perhaps most importantly, to stop allowing yesterday's disappointments to steal today's joy.

Because yesterday's sand has already fallen. You can't put it back. You can't change what happened. You can't rewrite every mistake or undo every regret. But you can decide what you're going to do with the sand that remains. And that brings me to something I want you to think about.

We spend so much time asking God for more years to our lives, when perhaps we ought to be asking Him to put more life into the years we have left. More compassion. More kindness. More gratitude. More patience. More understanding. More opportunities to make somebody else's journey a little easier.

Because when my final grain of sand falls, I don't want my life to be measured simply by how many years I lived. I want it measured by how many lives I touched. Not by the size of my bank account, but by the size of my heart. Not by how many people knew my name, but by how many people were better because our paths crossed. Not by how much I accumulated, but by how much I gave away.

I want somebody to be able to say, "He may not have had everything, but he gave what he had." "He wasn't perfect, but he tried to make a difference." "He made mistakes, but he learned to extend grace." "He understood that his life was not just about himself."

And when I think about that hourglass now, I realize something else. None of us knows how much sand remains in the upper chamber. Some of us may have years. Others may have months. And for somebody reading these words, today may be the very day that changes everything.

That's not meant to frighten you. It's meant to awaken you. Because as long as there is sand still falling, there is still purpose to fulfill. There is still somebody to encourage. There is still a wrong to make right. There is still a dream worth pursuing. There is still a prayer worth praying. There is still a life worth living. And there is still time to become the person God created you to be.

So let me leave you with this thought. Don't become so consumed with watching the sand fall that you forget to appreciate the life taking place between each grain. Don't spend what remains of your life mourning what has already passed. And don't allow the fear of tomorrow to rob you of the blessings of today.

The sand is falling. The clock is ticking. But you're still here. And if you're still here, God isn't finished with you yet. So make the call. Offer the apology. Extend the forgiveness. Share the wisdom. Tell your story. Love your family. Live your faith. And leave something behind that time cannot erase. Because one day, somebody will stand before family and friends and speak about the life we lived. The pastor will open the Bible. The music will play. The tears will fall. And those gathered will remember the moments we shared.

But by then, our hourglass will be empty. Our opportunities to change the story will have ended. And the only thing remaining will be the legacy we left in the hearts of others. So while there's still sand in the upper chamber, make every grain count. For the question is not simply how much time we have left. The greater question is: What are we doing with the time God has given us? And perhaps, when that final grain of sand falls, we will discover that the true measure of a life was never how long the hourglass ran, but how much love, faith and purpose we poured into the world while it was running. After all, the sand may stop falling, but a life well lived can continue touching hearts for generations.