No Bad Time -Only His Time, My Time, and Our Time

There is "No Bad Time" -Only His Time, My Time, and We Time

The Quiet After the Storm

Roger's phone hadn't buzzed in three weeks. For twenty years, it had been his lifeline-urgent calls from field coordinators, late-night emergencies, texts with coordinates to crisis zones. But now, in his small kitchen in Auckland, the silence felt deafening. The man who once treated cholera outbreaks in South Sudan and distributed blankets in Syrian refugee camps now stared at his calendar, empty except for a dentist appointment.

The transition from aid worker to retiree wasn't supposed to feel like this-like falling off the edge of purpose.

One Tuesday morning, while his tea cooled untouched, Roger noticed the dust particles floating in a shaft of sunlight. They moved so slowly, so aimlessly. Like me, he thought. But then something shifted. What if there were no wasted moments? What if God was still at work, just differently?

That's when he began to see it: life moves through three sacred rhythms-His Time, My Time, and Our Time. Each one essential. Each one holy.

His Time: When Dawn Breaks

In Kutupalong, Cox’s Bazar, Roger had learned to wake before the camp stirred. At 5 a.m., when the air still held night's coolness, he'd sit on an overturned crate with his coffee and a battered Bible. Those twenty minutes weren't about planning the day's logistical rounds they were about remembering whose work he was doing. "Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you." Matthew 6:33 He whispered it like a password, unlocking each day.

Now, in his old home in the countryside, Roger switches on his small table lamp each morning beside that same Bible, its pages swollen from humidity and years. He talks to God about feeling invisible, about the strange grief of a useful life ending. And slowly, he's learning: His Time isn't about being busy for God. It's about being with God-letting the Master reset his heart before the day begins.

Some mornings he cries. Some mornings he just sits. But every morning, he shows up.

My Time: The Flour on His Hands

Three months into the so called self-declared retirement, Roger's doctor used the word "burnout." His blood pressure told stories his mouth wouldn't. "You've spent two decades pouring yourself out," she said gently. "Now you need to let yourself be filled."

Although it sounded nice to one’s ears, it felt impossible. And like the doctor, folks around him were ready to give him life’s lectures, none had I guess ever stepped in his kind of shoes before.

Then he found his mother's recipe box in his old backpack—index cards in her looping handwriting, stained with butter and time. Lemon Tart caught his eye. He hadn't baked since he was twelve, helping her in their tiny kitchen in somewhere in the Asian sub-continent.

That Saturday, he bought lemons.

Measuring flour, zesting citrus, waiting for pastry to chill, it required patience he'd forgotten he had. When the tart came out golden and perfect, he sat at his table and cried. Not from sadness, but from surprise. He'd created something beautiful. Something unnecessary. Something that fed no one but himself.

"Do you not know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit... therefore, honour God with your bodies." 1 Corinthians 6:19-20

My Time, Roger realized, wasn't selfish-it was stewardship. God had given him this one body, this one mind, this one life. Caring for it wasn't indulgence; it was worship.

The baking continued. Ginger snap cookies on Monday. Banana bread on Thursday. Each one a small prayer of gratitude, kneaded into dough.

We Time: The Gifts We Share

Mrs. Chen next door was the first. Roger knocked with a still-warm loaf, mumbled something about "too much baking," and fled before she could respond. But the next week, she returned the plate with a thank-you note: This reminded me I'm not forgotten.

Then Sarah, the single mom three flats down, whose eyes always looked tired. Then Evangelist Satyanand’s family. Word spread quietly, not that Roger was some master baker, but that something about his kitchen smelled like kindness.

Sunday evenings became a rhythm. His small living room, mismatched chairs, a table crowded with whatever he'd made that week. They'd eat, talk, pray-nothing fancy, nothing forced. Just presence.

"For where two or three gather in My name, there am I with them." Matthew 18:20

In those moments, Roger saw it: the same miracle he'd witnessed in refugee camps. Not the grand drama of convoy deliveries, but the quiet multiplication of comfort. Jesus once fed thousands with borrowed bread. Now HE was feeding Roger's neighbours with butter, flour, and time.

We Time wasn't about fixing anyone. It was about showing up, sharing what you have, and trusting God to do what only He can do. Turn ordinary moments into communion.

Gathering the Fragments

Roger still misses the field sometimes the adrenaline, the clear-cut needs, the sense of being essential. But at his kitchen counter now, flour dusting his forearms, he's learning a different truth: God doesn't waste seasons.

Those years in crisis zones? His Time shaping him.
These quiet mornings baking? My Time restoring him.
These Sunday gatherings? We Time multiplying him.

After Jesus fed the five thousand, He told the disciples to gather the fragments, not because HE couldn't make more, but because nothing is wasted in the kingdom. Not the leftovers. Not the ending chapters. Not the slow years or the silent ones.

Every moment belongs to God's rhythm of grace.

Reflection for Believers

Are you in a season that feels purposeless waiting, transitioning, or simply exhausted?

Consider this: God's work in your life isn't limited to the visible, productive, or celebrated moments. His Time invites you to surrender control and sit in His presence, trusting He sees you even when the world doesn't. My Time calls you to tend your own soul without guilt, to rest, restore, and remember you are fearfully and wonderfully made. We Time reminds you that community isn't optional; it's where grace becomes tangible and isolation loses its grip.

Roger's story teaches us that the "in-between" seasons aren't interruptions, they're invitations. God is gathering the fragments of your life, preparing something you can't yet see. The question isn't whether this season matters, but whether you'll trust the One who authors every chapter and every season.

What if the rhythm you're longing for is already here hidden in surrender, renewal, and the sacred act of showing up for one another?

From the Wayfarer's journal at Crumbs n Wonders