That old, black Citizen clock hadn’t been cleaned for a very long time. It’s covered with dust and had been lying on our shelves for as long as I can remember. Its sides are marked with smudges of dirt, evidence of all the places it had been and all the shelves upon which it had once sat. It now resides in an isolated corner among toiletries, flushing toilets, and the sweet essence of Tahitian vanilla candles, ticking and tocking away—its time still true . . . its clicks still clear. I grew up hearing the sounds of clocks ticking. We were a family always aware of time—always seemingly prepared for the future. My schedule was planned out on an hourly basis; I was used to hearing the ringing of alarms and the yelling of my mom to go take an hour nap or practice my violin. Clocks were instruments to keep our life in order. But somehow we veered off schedule, turning and twisting until nothing made sense—not even the plans we made or the hourly schedule we maintained. We ended up in America, a foreign country with no occupations, no family, and no solace offered. All of this was according to the Lord’s timing—to His clock. This specific clock traveled by boat, across the rocky Pacific to get here. It belonged to my father, who used to carry the clock wherever he went—Italy, trainings, conferences. It was his timekeeper, an inexpensive piece of plastic with a rich history, one I only recall through stories from my parents. It once sat on the counter of a small Taiwanese studio apartment. It once lay gripped between the teeth of a one year old baby, drool dripping down its side as he tossed it around like a ball. In those videos, the little boy laughed and smiled, his face shining with joy as he abused its black, plastic shell. And then it ended up in America—a time machine among his collection of Spiderman and Batman action figures; every tick would allow his toys to travel through time, fight the bad guys, and return home safely. ![]() With the advent of cell phones, the clock slowly lost its importance. It now remains on the shelf acting as a relic of the past, reminding us of its rich history—a history it is still creating. As I sat on the airplane, I scanned my eyes across the aisles. Everybody was asleep, tired from the intensive two weeks of traveling in Taiwan. The air was eerily silent; I could only make out the sound of whistling air from the fans above us. The illuminated lights on the floors shined faintly, breaking the darkness of the cabin. I thought about that clock, the timekeeper passed down from my father. I thought about its story—its ticking that lulled me to sleep when I was a child. It reminded me again about the deep roots of our heritage, the fine lineage of Jesus described in the book of Matthew. It reminded me of the apostles and the many people who carried out the Lord’s testimony, forming small smudges, big dents, or invisible marks. It reminded me where I came from, where my parents came from, and why I was again finding myself on a plane back to America. The clock still ticks and tocks. Its function and purpose have never changed throughout all these years; it simply tells time. The Lord’s calling passes from generation to generation. He is seeking true believers who will stand firmly for His testimony on earth; His function and purpose never changes. Sitting there in those uncomfortable airplane seats, I knew our journey was to reconnect us back to the people who raised us, the individuals who fought for the Lord’s testimony and who stood firmly for His ground. We owe our lives to the Lord’s recovery, not as a celebration of a “movement,” but rather as a recognition of the importance brother Nee and Lee played in keeping the Lord’s fine lineage alive and vital. We owe just as much to brother T. Austin Sparks, sister M. E. Barber, the Moravian Brethren, Martin Luther, Paul, Ruth, Tamar, Rahab, David, and all those who stood for this ground, however small or large they may seem to be in history. But just like my clock, the Lord moves on. He moves from place to place, from heart to heart, from people to people, and from society to society. It is so easy to be stagnant and complacent, thinking we have something or we are something. When this happens, time will fly past us and we will be forgotten. It is our choice to stay on the shoreline or cross this Jordan into the unknown, trusting Him at every moment. History shows a lot. The Lord will move on and His calling will be given to those who really want Him. As I looked out the window, I could see the polychromatic smile of the Lord shining on my face, reminding me of His promise to His people. This rainbow shined as the promise for His continuation, His line of life, and His moving forward. The Lord was moving and we didn’t want to be left behind; this time, the river was just a tad bigger. No matter a dent or a drool mark, we desire to strive for the vision the Lord gave to His people, to be written alongside the names of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to be remembered as the ones who continued the lineage of the Lord and as those who kept His clock ticking. The ticking of that black Citizen clock has never sounded so different. -Samuel C
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September 2014
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