Friday
afternoons during my school years carried a particular shade of gloom. The end
of the week was marred by double periods of mathematics, an ordeal that felt as
burdensome as spending a day nursing a case of spondylitis. To escape, my
friends Sam, Tam, and I would hitch a ride on the short ferry from Govan across
the River Clyde to Kelvin. Our sanctuary lay a brief walk away—the grand
Kelvingrove Museum.
While
my friends lost themselves among the haunting stares of the Dutch
Masters—strange, lifelike eyes peering from gilded frames—I was drawn to a
different kind of relic. Tucked away in the Natural History section was a tree
stump, ancient yet undeniably alive despite its seven centuries. Running my
fingers over its rings, I traced the history embedded in its wood, each groove
whispering secrets like the static-laden tracks of a ’78 vinyl.
This
Glasgow stump, however, is youthful by the standards of dendrology. Far from
the bustling city, in the quiet of Europe’s forests, a Bosnian Pine has stood
since A.D. 941, its roots digging deep during the age of Viking raids along
Scotland's rugged coasts. This silent sentinel has withstood the ebb and flow
of human history—the Reformation, the Renaissance, Hiroshima, the rise and fall
of the Third Reich, even Brexit.
The
march of time, relentless and unyielding, often brings me back to the
resilience of nature compared to man’s relatively brief lifespan. A decade ago,
the world mourned Lonesome George, the century-old Galapagos tortoise,
reminding us of creatures like whales and turtles, whose lives span over 160
years, and jellyfish that dance close to immortality.
This
reflection on time and survival inevitably conjures the poignant musings of
Job, the ‘greatest of the Orientals’, who posed to his creator a rhetorical
quandary only to resolve it himself: "If a man dies, will he live again?
All the days of my hard service I will wait, till my renewal comes." (Job
14:14).
This
age-old question of life beyond death is one we’ve all pondered. No one
relishes the end of existence, and if our time must end, we yearn to know if
there is something more beyond it.
Now,
stepping into my sixth decade, mortality lingers close, yet my heart beats with
the fervour of youth, desiring millennia like a giant sequoia. In this longing,
I find a kinship with Job’s hope for renewal—a revival of spirit, if not of
body, in the face of the eternal march of time.
"When a man dies, will he live again?"
"When a man dies, will he live again?
All the days of my hard service I will wait,
until my renewal comes."
Job 14:14 (BSB).
Image generated by Microsoft Copilot
Friday afternoons during my school years carried a particular shade of gloom. The end of the week was marred by double periods of mathematics, an ordeal that felt as burdensome as spending a day nursing a case of spondylitis. To escape, my friends Sam, Tam, and I would hitch a ride on the short ferry from Govan across the River Clyde to Kelvin. Our sanctuary lay a brief walk away—the grand Kelvingrove Museum.
While my friends lost themselves among the haunting stares of the Dutch Masters—strange, lifelike eyes peering from gilded frames—I was drawn to a different kind of relic. Tucked away in the Natural History section was a tree stump, ancient yet undeniably alive despite its seven centuries. Running my fingers over its rings, I traced the history embedded in its wood, each groove whispering secrets like the static-laden tracks of a ’78 vinyl.
This Glasgow stump, however, is youthful by the standards of dendrology. Far from the bustling city, in the quiet of Europe’s forests, a Bosnian Pine has stood since A.D. 941, its roots digging deep during the age of Viking raids along Scotland's rugged coasts. This silent sentinel has withstood the ebb and flow of human history—the Reformation, the Renaissance, Hiroshima, the rise and fall of the Third Reich, even Brexit.
The march of time, relentless and unyielding, often brings me back to the resilience of nature compared to man’s relatively brief lifespan. A decade ago, the world mourned Lonesome George, the century-old Galapagos tortoise, reminding us of creatures like whales and turtles, whose lives span over 160 years, and jellyfish that dance close to immortality.
This reflection on time and survival inevitably conjures the poignant musings of Job, the ‘greatest of the Orientals’, who posed to his creator a rhetorical quandary only to resolve it himself: "If a man dies, will he live again? All the days of my hard service I will wait, till my renewal comes." (Job 14:14).
This age-old question of life beyond death is one we’ve all pondered. No one relishes the end of existence, and if our time must end, we yearn to know if there is something more beyond it.
Now, stepping into my sixth decade, mortality lingers close, yet my heart beats with the fervour of youth, desiring millennia like a giant sequoia. In this longing, I find a kinship with Job’s hope for renewal—a revival of spirit, if not of body, in the face of the eternal march of time.