The Clock Collector

By Vernon Tichler, Morrison, Illiniois

As appeared in

With one low gong the old Seth Thomas struck 12:30 a.m. I love clocks, especially that one—a humpback mantle from the late 1800s. But hearing it at this hour was just another reminder that I was still awake. My mind raced with worries: The economy, my wife’s health... Lord, help me sleep, I asked.

I thought about my first clock. During the Vietnam War, I was stationed at Finthen Army Airfield in Germany. On a weekend leave, I stopped in a quaint clock shop. One grandfather clock, amid hundreds, caught my eye. Unadorned. Plain brass face. Curved case of dark wood. I was inexplicably drawn to it. When I was discharged, I used every last penny I had to bring it home.

Over the years I added an antique-shop treasure, a rescue from an old apartment, a grandmother clock from an auction. I learned how to make repairs and restorations. Each clock had a different personality, a different need.

Ding! The cherry schoolhouse clock struck 2 a.m. Then all the clocks rang the hour. I’d timed them that way. But the early 1900s Gilbert missed a beat. I plodded down the hall. Within a minute I had it working again. The Lord is this way, I thought. He knows what troubles us and what we need. So why worry?

I went back to bed and drifted off to the steady ticks of my clocks. Each one a reminder of God’s personal care.