The Lost Art of Living in the Moment — and Finding Our Way Back
It was August, and our nearby café —and every other shops— already smelled like cinnamon, and pumpkin spice.
Outside, the air was still heavy with late-summer heat, yet inside stood a tower of twirling leaves print cups, and decorated pumpkins announcing autumn before it had even begun. My husband smiled; the children reached for their cinnamon rolls in their swimwear and salty skin. I laughed too, at first — even felt a flicker of excitement for fall, though summer has always been my favorite season.
Then that strange ache — the kind that doesn’t quite belong to any season — pressed in.
Despite their excitement for fall and Halloween (read What Halloween Really Means in the Spirit Realm), before October had even reached its end, the café had already replaced its pumpkin cups with Christmas ones — maple and hazelnut lattes traded for gingerbread and nutcracker flavored coffees.
By November first, my neighbors’ jack-o’-lanterns had vanished, and by the third, their Christmas lights glittered in the night.
A few months earlier, my husband and I had talked about this very thing — how, as children, we could hardly sleep the night before Christmas, or how a week until our birthday felt like a whole month. How the waiting itself shimmered with happiness.
We counted the days, not to rush them, but to feel them fill with meaning.
And when the day finally came — we lived it. Fully, wildly, gratefully. Not losing a second of it.
But now, it seems we only ever live in the before or the after.
Never the during.
Everywhere we turn, the world trains us to move on.
Celebrate early, lose interest by the time the day comes. Scroll quickly, buy what’s next before what’s here has even had the chance to breathe. We’re told it’s adulthood, busyness, responsibility — but it’s not true. It’s design. The system has learned that wonder doesn’t profit unless it’s restless.
Even our joy has been commercialized, parceled out in pre-release cups and early sales. By the time the day arrives, the world has already stripped it of its sparkle and is halfway through the next campaign.
And we follow. Half-alive, half-present, wondering why we no longer feel the warmth of anything we once loved.
We lost more than patience.
We lost the moment itself.
Somewhere between the countdown and the camera flash, we lost the art of being present.
The sacred pause between longing and fulfillment — that breath where gratitude is born — has vanished.
Scripture told us this rhythm was holy:
“To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under heaven.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1
But we’ve blurred the seasons until none feel sacred anymore.
When we live ahead of time, we rob our souls of awe.
We teach our children hurry instead of hope. They inherit our restlessness — eyes darting toward tomorrow before today has even unfolded.
God never meant it this way.
He gave us time as gift, not obstacle.
Even the birth of His Son was wrapped in centuries of waiting — generations who learned to expect light long before they saw it.
Waiting wasn’t punishment.
It was preparation.
How to Find Our Way Back
1. Protect the seasons.
Let each arrive in its own time. Don’t decorate before the first frost; let longing ripen.
2. Teach our children the joy of today.
Remind them that excitement isn’t a sin of childhood — it’s worship in motion.
3. Live the answer to your own prayers.
If you once longed for the life you have now, pause and live it.
Eat the meal you cooked without distraction. Sit beside the person you prayed to marry. Hold your child and count their heartbeat.
4. Reclaim slowness as rebellion.
Bake bread that takes a day. Walk instead of scroll.
Let boredom become a doorway to gratitude.
5. Give thanks aloud.
Naming the moment anchors it in time — “Thank You, Lord, for this very now.”
“The Lord is good to those who wait for Him.” — Lamentations 3:25
And to those who live in what they waited for.
The other day, back in that same café, the Christmas cups had already replaced the pumpkins before the 31st of October. My husband handed me a latte, the boys laughing over crumbs. The world rushed around us — traffic, headlines, lists — but for a breath, I saw it.
This.
The moment I once prayed for.
Happiness isn’t in what’s next.
Maybe it’s right here — waiting to be lived again.
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