Daily Timetable Quotes

God simply does not run this world by our timetable. What feels like a delay to us is right on schedule by His calendar. He often makes us wait, not to frustrate us, but to deepen our trust in Him.

An artist must regulate his life. Here is a time-table of my daily acts. I rise at 7.18; am inspired from 10.23 to 11.47. I lunch at 12.11 and leave the table at 12.14. A healthy ride on horse-back round my domain follows from 1.19 pm to 2.53 pm. Another bout of inspiration from 3.12 to 4.7 pm. From 5 to 6.47 pm various occupations (fencing, reflection, immobility, visits, contemplation, dexterity, natation, etc.) Dinner is served at 7.16 and finished at 7.20 pm. From 8.9 to 9.59 pm symphonic readings (out loud). I go to bed regularly at 10.37 pm. Once a week (on Tuesdays) I awake with a start at 3.14 am. My only nourishment consists of food that is white: eggs, sugar, shredded bones, the fat of dead animals, veal, salt, coco-nuts, chicken cooked in white water, mouldy fruit, rice, turnips, sausages in camphor, pastry, cheese (white varieties), cotton salad, and certain kinds of fish (without their skin). I boil my wine and drink it cold mixed with the juice of the Fuschia. I have a good appetite but never talk when eating for fear of strangling myself. I breathe carefully (a little at a time) and dance very rarely. When walking I hold my ribs and look steadily behind me. My expression is very serious; when I laugh it is unintentional, and I always apologise very politely. I sleep with only one eye closed, very profoundly. My bed is round with a hole in it for my head to go through. Every hour a servant takes my temperature and gives me another.

We may, indeed, say that the hour of death is uncertain, but when we say this we think of that hour as situated in a vague and remote expanse of time; it doesnot occur to us that it can have any connection with the day that has already dawned and can mean that death can occur this very afternoon, so far from uncertain,this afternoon whose timetable, hour by hour, has been settled in advance. One insists on one's daily outing, so that in a month's time one will have had the necessary ration of fresh air, one has hesitated over which coat to take, which cabman to call ;one is in the cab, the whole day lies before one, short because one must be back home early,as a friend is coming to see one; one hopes it will be fine again tomorrow; one has no suspicion that death, which has been advancing one on another plane, has chosen precisely this particular day to make it's appearance in a few minutes' time.....

And there followed him a great company of people, and of women, which also bewailed and lamented him. But Jesus turning unto them said, Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me…. —Luke 23:27–28 (KJV) GOOD FRIDAY: MORNING IS COMING My sister Cindy died three years ago, and I have yet to cry. I’ve cried about other tragedies, other deaths, but not about my sister. “Strange” does not begin to describe this behavior. Cindy was quadriplegic—had been for forty-five plus years. I could say she suffered (she did); I can say her death was a release (it was); I can even whip out the funeral clichés: “She was needed in heaven” (I wouldn’t know). But none of that explains my dry-eyed grieving. Late one night, my ever-patient wife said, “You know, you already mourned your sister.” I assumed Sandee wanted to start a large fight with a large insult. I hadn’t even begun to mourn. Then she added, “You mourned when she was alive. You celebrated who she had become, but you mourned the loss. You mourned that Cindy couldn’t walk. You mourned that she was in pain. It’s okay. You were a good brother. You are a good brother.” I realize this revelation was Sandee’s small gift to me. No one can tell you the right time to cry. Grief follows its own etiquette; death is rude and, lacking dignity, tramples timetables. I doubt Jesus’ gentle admonishment to the daughters of Jerusalem worked (Do you really think they stopped crying?), but now I get the point: It’s okay to mourn and it’s okay to finish mourning because morning is coming. Lord, Your death overcame sin but did not overcome sadness. Teach us how to grieve our losses as we celebrate Your victory. Amen. —Mark Collins Digging Deeper: Ps 30; Is 25:8

A plan is not a routine that a man does every day; it is not even a time table

How does one wait for death? What does one do while waiting? Carry on the same daily tasks? Bathe, cook, eat? Bring the washing in when rain threatens? Read a book? Hold up a mirror to one’s face? Write a letter, a diary entry? Death provides no calendar, no timetable, no clock to consult. No doctor, no acclaimed astrologer can say when it might come calling. Whatever mankind may do to bring about method, order, regulation, and use the astounding logic of mathematics, death will not obey. Death is most ungovernable, unmethodical, unruly, unreasonable. Death mocks. It jeers.

I could have constructed a timetable of their comings and goings, their daily habits and activities.... The chain of little habits that were their lives unreeled themselves. They were all bound in them tighter than the tightest straitjacket any jailer ever devised, though they all thought themselves free.... The first link, of the so-strong chain of habits, of custom, that binds us all, had snapped wide open.