As I write this, I am keeping company with a Mama Robin on our backyard balcony, so I’m treading lightly. Tapping, not pounding, the keyboard. Sliding, not slamming, the door. Basking in the breeze.

We planted raspberries in the garden below her nest, where she is now incubating her eggs. It all feels like a prayer—fingers pressed down into soil, not upright at a pew. Will it hatch? Will it grow? We water and we wait.

We survived the jam-packed month of May, and I am still recovering. When baseball was rained out yesterday, I crawled into bed at 4:30 p.m. and took the most delicious nap.

I relish many of the roles in my life, but being Keeper of the Clock is not one. Start times, end times, drive times, deadlines. Coaxing and corralling. Life measured by minutes. All the while, our bodies keep score: shoulders hunched, neck strained.

The other day, I felt the ticking clock bearing down on us, and a phrase sprang to mind that immediately halted it.

“Take your time,” I said.

Ahh! Three little words—three syllables—yet so powerful.

It felt good to say. Like an exhale. Like a hug. Like a permission slip. It’s OK to move at your own pace. It’s OK to be in the moment, to relish, not race. You’re doing just fine.

Now my goal is to say that loving phrase whenever I can—to others and to myself. To the kid sorting Lego pieces. To the 10-year-old knitting hats. To the preteen swinging. To the writer tinkering on the balcony.

There are worthy pursuits happening here, and they cannot be rushed. Good things take time. This is a truth of the spiritual life.

Last month, I got to meet one of my heroes in the Catholic press: Brother Mickey McGrath, an Oblate of St. Francis de Sales. I had been pushing through an hour of traffic when I finally reached the blue two-story house in north Minneapolis that serves as a monastery for the Visitation Sisters. I spotted Brother Mickey, their dear friend, on the front porch. He looked just as I expected, and his presence struck me as both gentle and jovial.

Now 68, the award-winning artist was enjoying his final night in Minnesota. He sounded reluctant to return to the demands of daily life back in Camden, N.J. Brother Mickey didn’t commit to a full-time art career until his late 30s, but since then, he has been prolific—which is to say, faithful.

We chatted about our work as I sliced strawberry-and-cream cake. When I shared a goal that has eluded me, he had the perfect response: “There’s no rush.”

It was just what I needed to hear.

Creative work takes time, and I like to believe that some of my best ideas are still incubating. The process can’t be forced.

One of my favorite practices of the year has been slow reading. I pick up the same book each night and read just a page or two. I approach it as a compliment: This book is good enough to savor.

The objective is not to reach the last page, but to enjoy the reading, absorbing the parts that will enrich my mind, lingering over the most meaningful passages.

Summer invites us to do the slow, holy work of being human. Take your time.

The robin eggs have now hatched, and I can see four fuzzy heads and upturned beaks in the nest. Mama flies in every few minutes to feed them. Her waiting has paid off, and she is ready.
 

(Christina Capecchi is a freelance writer from Inver Grove Heights, Minn.) †