It’s interesting how my writing of the Bible is like an hourglass. The pages from which I copy show me how much I’ve done, and how much there is left to do. All of it happens in the space of time. I often wonder which will run out first: the pages, or the time. I’m rooting for the pages.

I’m lying in the hospital as I prepare this narrative. It’s nothing unusual really. I spend a lot of time here. Today I’m in for a chemo infusion as well as for another infusion that’s too complicated for me to explain. Bottom line–I’ll be here for eight hours. I don’t really mind, even though it occasionally gets tedious. It’s how I’m able to continue doing the things that I do.
Right now I’m writing in the Apocryphal Books. The calendar says hurry toward the invisible deadline. I am prone to do its bidding because I fear the loss of time. But in actuality, time is not the task-mistress we make her out to be. We just continue being surprised by her blinding swiftness, and by all the things left undone.
I cannot yet see the sleek face of time as she moves ever forward. I have only seen the nape of her neck and the gossamer train of her translucent gown. But perhaps she will take pity upon me and will stop and smile when it is my turn to fall into the slumber of her eternity. And with all my strivings and efforts, I should expect that it is the pages that will be left behind, eventually parched and forgotten. 
As published in the January 2012 issue of "St. Peter's Press," the monthly newsletter of St. Peter's Presbyterian Church in Spencertown, New York. At the time of publication, Phillip was still in the throes of the Apocrypha.