Where your afternoons went

Everything that mattered had to happen before lunch. That was the rule. The hard call went first. The real thinking went first. By three you were running like a phone at ten percent. Dim screen, everything slow, saving what was left for the couch. You called it your body clock.

Your body clock had help. Up with each cigarette, down as it wore off, over and over, and by afternoon the dips had stacked up. Part of that crash may have been the ride, not you. The cigarette was spending your afternoons before you ever got to them.

As the ride levels out, the second half of the day can start showing up. God is returning hours you'd written off, and He's not asking you to fill them with work. One evening you'll look up at six and still be there, with hours ahead and charge to spare. Nobody announces the return of their own afternoon.

Put one thing you love into this evening before anything else can claim it. A walk with a friend. The guitar in the closet. A long call with someone you miss. Spend the hours on gladness, on purpose. Your old limit felt like your own. It was rented, and you've stopped paying.