But I am thinking back to when there were no phones at all, and people communicated across long distances by asking someone to carry a letter personally. Or they just showed up. It would have been impossible to call ahead to ask if you could visit. It must have seemed like a miracle when, for instance, your favorite nephew who lived three states away showed up at your doorstep, and luckily just at harvest time. Or the unmarried daughter you had to leave behind in, say, Cleveland, while you went out west to Colorado, showed up one day with her husband and 2-year-old child.
I don’t want to overdo it here, but when my son returns home from the Jamboree after being incommunicado for a full ten days (7 days so far, 3 to go), I will view it as a miracle. Before he left, in my foolishness, I told him I was not expecting a phone call from him, but it would be nice if he did call once or twice. Since he’s a teenage boy, he heard the first part, but not the rest.
All I know is, my son is somewhere in this crowd of 70,000 people. Can you spot him? He’s wearing a scout uniform with a white cap.
If you see him, be sure to tell him that I am sitting in the dark with no one to talk to, waiting for him to call. You don’t have to sob when you tell him that.
Maybe that makes me the first Presbyterian Jewish mother.
I’m not fearful for his safety, but I just want to know what he's been doing; if he’s having fun, if he got to try the robotics stuff, and if he changed his socks yet.
And yet, if I could talk to him, this is the way the conversation would go:
What have you been doing?!
Are you having fun?!
Did you get to try the robotics stuff?!
Did you change your socks yet?!
Even when he gets home, if we get any more information than that, it will be a miracle. I am eagerly awaiting that miracle.