Time takes on a different meaning when we are counting the days to a reunion. It has been a few months since I arrived in this country. What troubled me most was being separated from my family. Another challenge was having to set aside many of the activities I once did freely and independently.

I had never been apart from my loved ones for such a long time. Yet, in the midst of that pain, I also felt proud and grateful to see them gradually learning to do things on their own.

But then one day it struck me—I had only a few months left before returning home. Only a few months left. (Yes, although legally I could stay for a little longer, but that wasn’t the point.) Only a few months stood between me and the warm embraces of my wife and children. This should have filled me with excitement, but instead it stirred within me a deep unease.

The problem was not the waiting—it was the weight of time itself. I asked myself: Had I become the person I hoped to be? Had I lived up to what my family expected of me? I had come to this country with high hopes and a list of goals. Looking back, I felt I had accomplished very little. I wondered if I had done enough with the time, knowledge, and opportunities my Lord Jesus Christ had entrusted to me. Would I be able to fulfill my calling in the little time that remained? Could I, with my limited knowledge, really achieve much in such a competitive world?

Yet, despite my doubts, I pressed on, determined not to lose hope. “If the Lord delights in a person’s path, He makes their way firm.” (Psalm 37:23). Still, an unfamiliar anxiety crept in—thoughts of wasted opportunities, of blessings slipping through my fingers. But just then, a song reached my ears:
“Bayam lesham badhiyum Mama… Jesus my refuge… In the midst of great sorrow, Jesus will be with me.”
The words brought me comfort.

That same morning, a message appeared on my phone: “You are turning 50. Happy Birthday!” A dear friend had remembered. Birthdays had always been a joy, but this one made me pause. His words set off a chain of thoughts I had never faced before.

“I am 50 years old.” My heart refused to accept it. Memories of childhood, friendships, joys, and sorrows all rushed back. Half a century had passed. God had indeed helped me accomplish some things, but despite the many opportunities, so much remained undone. I could not honestly say I had achieved all I was meant to. Most of what lay before me were still dreams waiting to be fulfilled.

Even if I were to live another fifty years (a bold ambition, but one can still hope), time ahead is limited and uncertain. Will my health endure? Will my enthusiasm last? The haunting question echoed: There is so much left to do. If I live to be 80, and look back, will I see a life of fulfilled purpose—or will I again whisper, “I have not done much”?

It was in this moment of vulnerability that the words of Jesus in the Gospel of Matthew came alive with striking clarity—the Parable of the Talents (Matthew 25:14–30).

In the story, a master entrusts his possessions to three servants before leaving on a journey. To one he gives five talents, to another two, and to the third one—“each according to his ability.” When he returns, the first two have doubled what they were given. To them the master says:
“Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Enter into the joy of your master.” (Matthew 25:21)

But the third servant, who had received one talent, had buried it out of fear. He returned it unused. The master’s response was clear and stern:
“You wicked and lazy servant! You should have at least put my money with the bankers, so that on my return I would have received it back with interest.”

This parable pierced my heart. It is not about financial investment—it is a lesson about how we steward the time, opportunities, and gifts that God has given us. The master knew his servants perfectly; he gave to each according to their ability. The servant was not condemned for the amount he produced, but for doing nothing out of fear and complacency. He buried the gift.

That question now presses on me: “Will I bury my talent before the God who has given me these 50 years?”

The time we are given—whether four months or fifty years—is not meant to be hidden away or wasted in fear. It is a sacred trust. The anxiety I feel about my remaining months—and my remaining years—is itself a reminder, a call from the One who gave me time: Now is the time.

We do not know how many days we have left. But we do know this—the Master will return. That day will come. It is not a call for frantic, panicked effort, but for faithful and purposeful living. Our talents—our time, our abilities, our love—are to be used here and now, to the best of our ability, to build, to grow, and to serve.

This message is not one of fear, but of hope and anticipation. The same Master who said “Well done” to His faithful servants extends the same invitation to us. He has given us everything we need for the time we have.

The call is clear: let us not waste our days. Let us invest them wisely, so that when our time is up, we may return them to Him—with interest.

May God help us in this. God bless you all.