In Search of My Lost Hour
| February 25, 2025I looked at the clock, sure it was a quarter to three, but it wasn’t. It was a quarter to four. That can’t be, my mind insisted
Last Monday, I lost an hour. I mean, I was sure I knew where it was, but then I couldn’t find it.
It was a typical Monday. I got up at my usual hour to daven before I had to wake up the kids. They’re pretty independent teenagers, so I don’t need to do much to get them out of bed. In the meantime, I handled my morning tasks — a load of laundry, wiping down the bathrooms, giving a good sweep where needed. I didn’t lose my hour there.
On Mondays I don’t go to work, but I do have a weekly chaburah. We’re a small group, and learning the timeless values in the sefer Orchos Tzaddikim has bonded us together and developed our neshamos. I certainly didn’t lose my hour there. The women in the group are on tight schedules. We were finished by 10:15 sharp.
My next stop was a clothing gemach where I volunteer. As we sorted through the various donated garments, the other volunteers and I also rummaged through our thoughts, worries, and triumphs. One volunteer described a workshop she attended. The women paired up, and one of them was handed a bottle of bubbles. She blew the bubbles at the second woman, who was instructed to pop a bubble each time a thought entered her head. My friend described how she popped bubbles madly at first, and then her thoughts slowed down. Maybe if my thoughts would slow down, I could find my lost hour. Should I get bubbles?
After my session at the clothing gemach, I headed to the supermarket for my weekly shopping. One of my friends asked for a ride, and I agreed, happy to have the company. I’m sure I didn’t lose my hour then.
I found a parking space and a working shopping cart right away. I wasn’t particularly distracted by the seasonal items on display, so I can’t imagine my lost hour could be found there. It was nice to bump into acquaintances every few aisles. We compared produce for freshness, complained about prices, and kvelled over good news. I don’t recall any real DMCs, although I do remember that one friend spent some time describing her three daughters in shidduchim. I was contemplating which great boys could be matches for her lovely daughters. I hope those boys were not lost with my hour.
The supermarket recently instituted a new system: Spend above a certain threshold, and you were entitled to three hours of free parking. I didn’t take advantage of the new system last Monday, and I certainly wasn’t at the supermarket for three hours.
I only realized I’d lost my hour when I returned from shopping. I looked at the clock, sure it was a quarter to three, but it wasn’t. It was a quarter to four. That can’t be, my mind insisted as I rechecked the time on my phone. I left my shopping in its bags and took out my siddur, afraid I would miss shkiah.
And for the rest of the evening, I ruminated. Where did that hour go? I didn’t lose it at the pool where I work as a hydrotherapist, because I didn’t go to work today. (I did leave my new jacket there, but it was easily retrieved.) I don’t think the hour got lost in the dryer along with the missing socks. Nor did it get thrown out with the trash — who would throw out a perfectly usable hour?
I moped over my lost hour all the way to bedtime. Mine, that is. Teenagers decide their own bedtimes. I didn’t bother asking them if they’d spotted my lost hour. Though I’ve spent endless time helping them find their lost items, they wouldn’t understand the significance of the hour I’d lost.
I can’t call the Lost & Found gemach to reclaim my lost hour, but even if could, I wouldn’t know how to describe it. In any case, someone else might try claiming it.
My day had been productive, I tried to console myself. What would I have done with that hour anyway? My housework was done, and I’d made all my important phone calls for the day. I got to my chaburah and my volunteering stint. The shopping was done and supper was on the table on time. Why did it matter that I couldn’t find one measly hour?
I was bothered that I was bothered over this disappearing hour, and it was only after a lot of (soul) searching that I understood. More than the hour, it was the facade that I had control over my time. I probably never lost that hour after all.
But I did gain the realization that time is a commodity, and I must appreciate the time I am given.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 933)
Oops! We could not locate your form.
