The Sunday Sermonette – Old Clocks on Boling Street.
As this old world winds its main spring tighter and tighter every day, I often turn my mind’s clock back to languid summer days spent in the early 60s with my sweet Granny from D’Lo. She lived in Jackson, Mississippi, in those days, and they were some of the happiest of my life.
Mornings began with the smell of bacon and eggs frying in an old black skillet. Hot coffee bubbled in Granny’s percolator. A large glass of milk from her icebox marked my place at her little breakfast table in her little house at 214 Boling Street. Many of those mornings began with a gentle knock at her back door.
Oscar, her neighbor, was a kind elderly man who was diabetic. He had a withered right arm, bent at the elbow, which he held close to his chest. His arm and hand shook due to the palsy, as Granny called it. Oscar lived with another elderly man named Tom, who repaired antique clocks to help make ends meet.
When Tom was busy with his clocks, he often told Oscar to ask Granny to give him his insulin shot. In the still warmness of the morning, as sunlight kissed Granny’s African violets, a new smell filled the kitchen—rubbing alcohol. I could never watch when Granny pushed the shot needle into Oscar’s wrinkled arm.
My memories of Oscar and Tom are selective. I don’t remember if they were related, what they did for a living, or if they had any family. But I do remember their tiny house, constructed of concrete blocks, sat close to the street under a leafy grotto of live oaks. They both smoked pipes, so their house was marinated with the sweet smell of pipe tobacco. Their house held another fascination for me. Clocks!
They lined the walls. Sat on tables, on shelves, and on the floor. A stately grandfather clock held court in one corner of their living room. And every fifteen minutes, the house was filled with a symphony of tings, gongs, bongs, and Westminster chimes, a constant reminder of the passage of time.
When I visited the two men and if I was very quiet—a near-impossibility for me—Tom would let me watch him repair a clock, a time-consuming ordeal. He’d disassemble it first, looking for missing parts, broken gear wheels and springs. He’d often soak the clockworks in a cleaning solution to dissolve caked dust and built-up grime. Then, he’d reassemble the clockworks, ensuring all its parts were in their correct positions. The last thing he did was wind the main spring, listening to be sure the clock was ticking and chiming correctly.
Those precious days are gone now, as are Granny, Oscar, and Tom. But I learned a valuable lesson from old Tom: You can’t turn back the clock of time, but you can repair it, wind it up again, and cause it to tick a little longer. We are each created by a master clockmaker: Father God. Our every cog, every gear, and every spring is important to Him. It pleases Him when we are happily ticking away.
However, when we fall off the shelf of life due to bad choices, stupid decisions, hard-headedness, and arrogance, our “clock” needs repairing, and Father God stands ready to do so if we call upon Him. God knows us intimately. He can restore us when life has dirtied our main springs and clogged our gears. “For He hath said, I will never leave or forsake you.”
Ponder this and go forth.