Monday mornings are generally not greeted with a great deal of elan. They are normally a day to reflect on the chores and obligations that another turn of the calendar page brings to the next new week.
But now, with a boy overseas, Monday also means that on this day off, I can instant message and email with him to see how life is treating my favorite missionary.
I realize that he isn't a child anymore. But I also realize that he will always and forever be MY child. It is a strange and precious thing to think that a tiny baby who entered the world at 8 pounds and some ounces is now on a voyage of discovery of self and sharing of personal testimony with people who prior to November 19th were strangers to him and he to them. And that baby is no longer a helpless baby wiggling on a pastel blanket but a self-assured man who is learning to take his place in the world while leaving room in the world for others, too.
Those few moments at an unseemly hour of the morning are precious moments indeed. A rare commodity lacking in the usual substance of life. It is a time where we just talk. Nothing is offbase or unworthy of the few moments of time where we can share the intersection of his life and mine.
I must admit to also being somewhat greedy in this particular form of communication. I do not awake my husband to share the moment. Perhaps I should, but the specter of his tired eyes trying to drive all over creation for various job related activities is just too much of a danger. And I am plain selfish.
Seeing the little postings is like a tiny reminder that I matter to him as much as he matters to me. Nothing can rob me of that special time and I would gladly sacrifice the sleep anytime just to be able to hear from him if only in this medium at this time.
While we did get to talk to him on the phone at what I am SURE will be an exorbitant cost for Christmas, our next opportunity to speak to him will not occur until May sometime around Mother's Day.
I can wait.
I get to chat with him on Monday mornings. Albeit at 3 a.m.
This week, I have to ask him if he has received word of a transfer. He might have the opportunity to stay in the town he currently serves in and continue the work that has been occupying his time to this point. Or, he may have been given the freshly minted adventure of moving to another port of call to share the teachings of Jesus Christ with an entirely new audience.
Either way, it is only through the voice of the Holy Spirit that those who listen are touched with the truth.
And as the conduit to invite that Spirit to come into the lives and homes of those whom he teaches, my son shares a kindred moment with the Savior, whom he represents. He is standing at their door and knocking, admitted by choice of the resident of the household, and sharing a message that they WANT to receive either in part or in full measure.
It is through this sharing of light, from one lamp to another and from one flickering candle to light the path as we spread the light behind carefully cupped hands, sheilding the tender flame from the winds of adversity that the message of the restoration of the fullness of the Gospel of Jesus Christ will fill the world with a light beyond measure.
I think that is why I like Monday the best. I get to hear about his light being spread to those who hold out their candle and wait in the darkness with only hope to help them keep their candle aloft.
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