Can you sit still, just an hour or so?

Will you find in your calendar minutes for me, squeezed from seeming nothing?

Not time for time sake, or to appease conscience, but time for love to sit and relish in the company of companions.

I want to help you prove to yourself that you can offer to me, what I’ve so freely done for you.
Convenient? Hardly. Piles in the inbox, that gnawing, grinding tension in the belly sounding like alarm bells? Sure. But before the day’s sun casts long shadows upon its imminent end, I need you to steal time for me.

Rob the miser of his precious minutes, and cast them without restraint at my feet. They will feel like a waste, as if for so little effort, so little has been accomplished. But I want faith to win here, not pragmatism. The P word wins most of the hours of the day; let it lose this battle, and let it lose often.

Be an unabashed burglar for me, for us and for love. Steal time as though it’s value were a street fortune, because in the end, it’s all we have to give to the One who see’s not minutes, but an eternity for our love to grow.