A life lived by weeks

 

“Dear Jason,” I begin.  Then I sit each Sunday evening and think, trying to decide what I have to say to my missionary boy and how to best describe my week.

I am surprised at what an interesting experience it has been to write to Jason every week.  In my life there is a distinct ending to each day, but the weeks tend to flow one into the next.  But not for the last 20 months.  For the last 20 months on all but one occasion I have spent my Sunday night reviewing the previous week and writing to Jason, amazed that Sunday night has come again so soon. 

The letter writing marks each week-ending as a finite place in time (and sometimes space), separates definitively the last week from the next.  This review every seven days has shown me in a new way the inexorable pace of time, never slowing, ticking down the one hundred and four weeks of his mission at a pace I never would have imagined when he left.

There are 15 Sundays left.  Fifteen more letters, fifteen more Mondays to look forward to reading his.  And then we will have him home for two weeks before he rushes (headlong, I am certain) into the rest of his life.

Tonight I am wondering if I will miss this weekly appointment, if my hyper-awareness of the passage of time will fade away, if I will find myself returning to my weekly review. 

Only time will tell…