Last night, I heard something clicking every time I moved my sleeve. The face on my Garmin slipped off, anchored only by a skinny twisted cord.  I’ve had it just over 3 years. Zac bought it for me with his own money 3 Christmases ago. I only take it off to shower. The rubber wristband is torn and almost ripped beyond fixing. It tracks my heartbeat, giving me a resting average every day (last was 47).  It tracks every step I take and how far I run. It beeps imperiously at me when I’ve been sitting too long by posting Move! at regular intervals. It has consistently registered the calendar date as tomorrow’s date, despite resetting and no matter what day it actually is, giving me a kind of faint hope that there will *be* a tomorrow. It has been a constant companion, through traveling, seasons and sameness.

I debated about whether to wear it while I ran. But to what purpose? Would it track things in a dormant state? Would I care about the run if it didn’t get calculated or counted somewhere? Would it matter in the universe? How would I know about mile splits or if I had enough time to run farther? In the end, I left it. I ran without any data. My left wrist felt strangely naked as air rushed over it. I pushed to 3 miles (yay!) and was glad I did. I considered the things I do for me whether anyone else knows about it or not. Writing falls in that category. So does running. Sometimes I need reminding.

Back home, I kept pushing the Garmin’s face back on.  It won’t stay in the square face frame. It lights up if I push the right button. However, it registers nothing, knows nothing. It’s blank and more than a little creepy. I googled how to fix it but couldn’t find anything definitive. Jonathon said he’ll take a look at it, but it’s probably time to buy a new one.

Coincidentally, Zac left home for Texas again today. He’ll be back at Sheppard AFB this afternoon. I hated to tell him it broke. It was the first thing I think he’s ever bought me that cost him in any significant way. It seems like the end of an era.

We all felt the gravity of his leaving this morning. We prayed as a family, then Jonathon and Zac walked out the door. Every time he leaves now, he returns as more of an adult. He’s released into the world and learning to fend for himself. He’ll cross yet another chasm where I can’t follow. He must go on alone. We will run our races simultaneously, connected by the shared intertwined cords of love and faith, but not on the same course.

For everything there is a season,
    a time for every activity under heaven. – Ecclesiastes 3:1