In January 2020, Billie Eilish swept the Grammy Awards.
I remember it well. On music’s biggest night, honors in the “big four” categories—Best New Artist, Song of the Year, Album of the Year, and Record of the Year—were awarded to the then-18-year-old artist.
I hadn’t watched the awards, but I recall two distinct emotions as the news eventually found me. The first, strangely, was a sense of pride. I didn’t know many of her songs, but Eilish’s general style and partnership with brother-producer Finneas made it a story too good to ignore. It felt like watching the good guys win.
The second subtle feeling was one of dread, a sinking in the gut. What I cheered on in the young star’s success was an equal reminder of every song I hadn’t written and award I hadn’t won. Not that I ever intended to be a Grammy winner, but music was a desire I had never fairly pursued.
Somewhere hidden, I knew I was falling behind.
I’m getting older.
As it turns out, I was far from alone in the fight against time. Scrolling, I found one twitter user had made a thread highlighting classic songs about wrestling with the world. We’re talking Dylan, Springsteen, the Beatles—the great American songbook. Somewhat humorously, this user listed each writer’s age at the time of their song’s release. All were in their mid-to-late twenties.
The irony was easy to spot. More users replied, adding their contributions to the list. Before long, it was song upon song of dudes singing:
My time is up! - 23
It’s over - 25
Start digging, grandson - 28
I tried during this writing to locate the thread again. It may be lost to time, however the point remains the same: Whether it’s particularly 20-somethings, males, artists, or the convergence of all three, there’s something we buck about the passage of time.
I don’t think I dread time anymore. I’ve made my peace. That doesn’t mean I’ve lost interest in it, though.
For a recent class, I submitted a portfolio of poems written throughout the semester. We peer-reviewed each other’s entries, and one classmate noted themes in my writing—among others—of “day/night” and “the passing of time.” Guilty as charged.
The truth is, I’m fascinated with time. Like looking out from a mountain peak or imagining the depth of the ocean from the shore, it elicits in me that hurts so good sense of wonder that’s often hard to replicate.
I’m not afraid of time. I marvel at it.
I think of the future, the past, and what eternity would be—to live outside of time.
Speaking of dread, there’s a question that can stir it: What happens when time is up? (Bear with me.) This is of course the grander question beneath our small rubs with the clock.
We all have a repeatable answer, be it “Heaven,” or “nothing,” or “no one really knows.” I’m not interested in a canned response so much as envisioning the experience of it. What would eternity even feel like? What do we do? Can we comprehend it?
A few months after Billie’s clean sweep, I picked up an instant favorite book, A Biblical Case for an Old Earth by David Snoke, a physics researcher and professor. Its purpose is beyond that of this piece, but one particular chapter illuminated the way I think about eternity. Snoke lays out two scientific proofs about our movement through time.
They go like this:
How can we prove that time is moving?
This one is actually pretty simple. We observe it in intervals. Watch the sun rise and set. Watch the clock tick. These are enough to confirm that time is indeed marching on.
How can we prove that time is moving forward?
This is where it gets trickier.
Watch 60 seconds on a clock. You’ve now moved a minute in time, but was it forward or backward? We instinctively know it’s forward; you’re now a minute older. But how is that verified? Who’s to say when we’re moving right versus left on the timeline?
The answer is decay.
Our first observation—watching the clock—tells us that we’re moving. But it’s the slow unraveling—of the fruit on the counter, the cracks in the pavement, and even our own bodies—that act as our only proof that we’re moving forward.
We assume that we’re progressing in time. It’s only when we observe our surroundings break down, however, that we confirm this to be the case.
I haven’t seen it quite the same since. Time and decay aren’t fighting against us. Rather, they’re our instruments—the odometer and compass—measuring not just distance, but direction.
I’ve often wondered what eternity means. And for me, Snoke’s account of time and decay offers the missing pieces.
Eternity = Life - Decay
It’s not too hard to imagine.
Eternity is like this moment—forever.
It’s sitting on the porch, sipping coffee with cream, hearing the wind in the trees as I type.
And of course, I could stand up and walk away, too. Maybe I’d go for a run, and later spend time with friends. But I’d never worry that it has to end. I’d forget the slow drip of dread and never again fear that I’m falling behind.
Life minus decay.
Maybe you don’t need Snoke to envision yourself in eternity. I certainly did.
Or maybe you’re reading this without my same Christian framework (which all of this assumes). I recognize that. But wouldn’t you still admit it sounds pretty great?
We wouldn’t want all of life to extend forever. (Should I say most of life?) But if maybe once a month I brush against transcendence—enjoying nature, laughing with friends, appreciating music—I’ve made a habit to picture it without decay. I pause, take a breath, and envision myself in eternity.
Scripture states that in the New Earth, the sun never sets—no intervals. There’s no death or decay—just an unending moment to soak in God’s glory.
But when I wake back up to reality and catch the chips in the paint, there’s no more reason to dread.
I’m not falling behind, I’m only moving ahead—getting older.