On a five-hour road trip, there is no more repeated question in a father’s ears than:
“How long until we get there?”
The question came from the backseat somewhere along Highway 101. Back in 2020, that question was launched no less than 5,000 times from the mind and mouth of our nine-year-old son. He had Dorito dust on his fingertips and enough anticipation in his body to power the entire Pacific Northwest.
Meanwhile, Jana and I were soaking in every turn of the Oregon coast. Mountains disappeared into marine fog. Dairy farms opened into valleys. Nils Frahm’s album Screws played softly through the speakers (this album is a favorite of mine). I found myself thinking about my dad again.
I wondered what he’d think of me now. I was forty years old. A pastor. Trying my best in a world that feels increasingly difficult to understand. Would he have wisdom for me? Would he feel just as bewildered as I sometimes do? I don’t know.
What struck me, though, was that my son and I were experiencing time completely differently while sitting in the very same vehicle.
For him, time was measured in distance remaining. For me, it was measured in presence. Or maybe even absence. The older I get, the more adulthood feels like learning to live with both at the same time: Who was here? Who is here? Time slips through our fingers exactly the way it’s supposed to.
The Greeks had two words for time.
Chronos is clock time. Deadlines. Schedules. Minutes. The ticking pressure of ordinary life. It’s the kind of time my son was asking about from the backseat: “How much longer?”
But kairos is something else entirely. Kairos is meaningful time. Sacred time. The kind of moment that somehow lodges itself deep in your soul and refuses to leave.
Not every moment becomes kairos. But every once in awhile, ordinary life suddenly glows from within.
I remember one of those moments from when I was nine years old. My family had driven down to Panama City Beach in our old Aerostar van. One afternoon my dad and I left the beach to grab something from the condo. Bill Early in the late 80s had the beach look dialed in. Green swim trunks. White V-neck. Black rubber flip-flops. Aviator sunglasses. Absolute legend.
We rode the elevator up together in silence. It smelled like bleach, sunscreen, and saltwater. Sand stuck to my bare feet. When we reached the seventh floor, my dad unlocked the condo door and a blast of freezing air conditioning rushed over us like the opening pages of Acts — wind and wonder spilling suddenly into ordinary life. And for one brief second, I saw myself reflected in his sunglasses: a shirtless little boy looking up at his father.
Then he reached into his pocket and handed me a peach Jolly Rancher. I still think it was the best candy I’ve ever tasted. That moment lasted maybe ten seconds. But somehow it became eternal. To this day I can close my eyes and within a few moments, I feel like I can be right there again. Me, him, the Holy Spirit, and a peach Jolly Rancher.
That’s kairos.
And I wonder sometimes if we are losing our ability to notice those moments altogether.
We have become people obsessed with chronos. Watching clocks. Refreshing feeds. Shaking our heads at gas prices, political hot takes, and whatever fresh chaos the algorithm serves us next.
But the Apostle Paul writes: “Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of the time, because the days are evil.”
The best use of the time.
I love that command.
What’s the best possible way to steward this moment? How can I honor Jesus in the way I wash this dish, talk to my neighbor, or even walk the dog? You do know that hanging out with your pets is holy work too, ya know?
Notice what is sacred before it disappears unnoticed.
On that first Easter Sunday, the disciples on the road to Emmaus said to one another, “Did not our hearts burn within us while he walked with us on the road?”
Oh, they missed it.
They missed him.
But he didn’t miss them.
Sometimes the holiest moments are accompanied by signs, wonders, angels, and dramatic feats — the unveiled glory of God on full display; impossible to miss.
And yet, there are also moments that are just as holy, and they rarely announce themselves while they are happening.
They arrive disguised as Dorito dust.
Condo doorways.
The reflection in a pair of aviator sunglasses.
A peach Jolly Rancher handed from a father to a son.
Holiness and nostalgia are not quite the same thing. Both matter. Both have the ability to tie the heart and mind together. But only one touches the soul and thereby changes everything.
So where might God have been nearer to you than you realized at the time?
Afternoon Grace,
Pastor Alex