It links our generations,
an heirloom passed from sire to son,
my pocket watch that still displays
the passing minutes, one by one.
The dollar value of its polished
leaf of gold’s of little worth,
and yet I’d not exchange my watch
for any other watch on earth.
My Grandpa placed it in my care
the year my father died
and told to me its story
while sitting at my side.
“The story holds a lesson,
a metaphor,” he said, “for life,
a parable that taught me how
to harvest peace from fields of strife.
In eighteen ninety-five, the year
an early spring and tardy frost
resulted in a bumper crop,
my father paid a lofty cost
to build a giant icehouse,
one large enough to hold in store
the ice we’d sell come summer,
five thousand blocks or more
cut from the nearby lake and packed
in sawdust from the mill in town.
My father’s budding enterprise
brought in customers from miles around.
For five weeks every winter,
he’d pay a dozen hardy men
to cut and haul the ice blocks
the two miles to the icehouse, then
they’d pack them tight in sawdust,
and when the job was through,
the profit from the year before
would pay the short-term crew.
And I, a scrawny boy of ten,
worked at my father’s side.
The pocket watch, it kept the hour,
and pa would often say with pride,
‘One day I’ll leave it in your care
as my pa left it safe in mine,
and as you run the harvest,
the pocket watch will tell the time
the workers take their lunch break
and when each workday’s toil is through.
It’s my most prized possession, and
I’m hoping it will be yours, too.
If you’ll wind it every evening,
five turns, no more—don’t stress its gears—
and keep it polished, clean, and dry,
then it will last three hundred years.
The things we value most in life
require constant care and pride.’
My father taught this lesson well;
he kept his cherished watch inside
a special buttoned pocket that
my ma had sewn inside his vest.
That’s where it stayed safe, close at hand,
and ticking at its level best,
until one winter afternoon,
while storing up our frozen ware,
he reached inside his pocket
and discovered that it wasn’t there.
Sometime between our lunch and when
the wagon teams had been unhitched,
the pocket where he kept the watch
had somehow come unstitched.
‘It’s somewhere in the sawdust,’
my father urged his weary crew.
I’ve been inside since lunchtime.
I’ll give a full day’s wages to
the man who brings it back to me
before the evening sun goes down.’
So on their hands and knees they searched,
but the missing watch could not be found.
‘It’s a needle in a haystack.
It’s useless toil,’ the workers cried
then took their wages and went home.
The pocket watch remained inside
the icehouse, lost in sawdust.
My father hung his head
and spent the night in silence ‘til
he tucked me into bed.
‘It’s all right Pa. Please, don’t be sad.
It ain’t your fault, Pa,’ I consoled.
‘I’m sure that we will find it in the
summer when it’s not so cold.
Each time we sell a block of ice,
I’ll search the sawdust that’s around it.
I’ll look real good. One day—be sure—
You’ll hear me shout “Look Pa, I’ve found it.”
My father tried to force a smile
and said while fighting back a tear,
‘You’re young, Son; you don’t understand.
When summer comes I greatly fear
the gears will all have rusted.
It can never be the same for me.
Yes, a jeweler might can fix it,
but, Son, it's more than that. You see,
we’ve wound the watch each evening
for sixty years until tonight.
I’ve let my pa and grandpa down.
So, Son, you see, it’s not all right.’
At one I woke up suddenly,
warm but restless. In my head
the watch weighed heavily on my thoughts,
and as I lay awake in bed
I marveled at the quiet of
the cold, dark winter night.
The world was draped in silence,
such silence that one might
perceive the faintest echo of
a distant hum or slightest noise
should any pierce the stillness and
focus of a pensive boy’s
meditation: no conversation,
no horses neigh nor bleating flock
to mask a sound as weak as—yes!—
as the ticking of a clock!
The clock above the kitchen sink
downstairs, yes, I could faintly hear.
And if a clock three rooms away,
why could not, too, my eager ear
detect the muffled ticking
of a pocket watch? Why yes, I’d try.
I dressed in total darkness,
put on my coat, and tiptoed by
my parents open bedroom door,
then slipped into the quiet night,
and, once inside the icehouse,
surveyed my task by candle light.
With bated breath I listened:
nothing. Total silence reigned.
The blocks of ice were layered.
eight rows high and in between
each stratum lay the sawdust
four inches thick and on each side
an equal width between each block.
This ordered mass that had defied
the frantic search of twelve strong men
rose now before my eager view.
Up I climbed, sat, caught my breath,
and in my mind’s eye quickly drew
my route, the pattern of my search,
and then commenced. Each yard or so
I’d pause and keenly listen
on hands and knees with head bowed low.
The first hour passed by slowly,
and halfway through the next my grit
began to wane, but on I pressed
resolved I would not quit.
Another three feet forward,
a pause, keen concentration,
a wide-eyed start, a gasp, a smile
an ardent exclamation:
‘I hear it. It’s still ticking.’
I moved my anxious ear
to one side then the other
and back again ‘til I could hear
it best then sifted gently through
the sawdust to the ice.
I stopped again to listen,
then fetched a tool, the one device
I’d need: the metal ice tongs.
With all my strength I lifted
then paused again to find the sound
and once again through sawdust sifted.
A second block removed, and now
the sound was louder. You might say
the watch was calling out for help
from where between two blocks it lay.
Where carelessness and haste had failed,
I’d found Pa’s prized possession
by being still and listening.
Now, this story holds a lesson
I hope you’ll ponder often,
a lesson,” Grandpa said, “for life.
This parable can teach you how
to glean God`s peace from fields of strife.
How often when we kneel to pray
do we forget to pause and listen?
How often, as our gratitude
gives way to our petition,
do we do all the talking?
Do we forget confession
requires us to stop and give
the Lord our full attention?
How can God’s gentle, peaceful voice
be heard when life’s commotions
obscure the quiet promptings
that only come when our devotions
allow Him equal time?
We expect that when we pray
our God is always listening.
But when He has something to say,
are we as conscientious?
Or do we listen only
when our hopelessness impels us,
when we’re hurt, contrite, or lonely?
So when you pray, first, find a time
and place where peace and quiet reign.
Then, once you’ve had your say, be still
and listen. Let your mind refrain
from thinking, wandering, sleeping.
Turn your spirit’s ears up just a notch,
and hear the quiet, still, small voice
like the ticking of a pocket watch.”

The story of the pocket watch is not mine. I've never seen it in print, but I've heard different versions of it several times in church talks. I like it because it rings true to my own experience with—and understanding of—prayer. Like most parables, it takes its metaphor from something common to life's experience, but that something comes from a former time and place. There are no longer any ice houses like the one my father used to work in as a young man. Neither are there many pocket watches around anymore, and so I fear that the parable may not ring very true to younger ears. But then again, wheat and tares, oil burning in lamps, and husbandmen and vineyards aren't very common among us either.