Another day

By now it has become apparent what will be hardest for me the next several months.  Every night when I stop to write to my fair lady I feel as though I am able to talk to her and be with her.  In contrast, my days drag on knowing there is no chance that I will hear from her for some time.  The postal system feels more and more like snail mail.  It is difficult to never know when the next letter will arrive and it is even worse when I know there are letters, but they haven't arrived yet.  I feel tricked running to the mailbox, only to find another day has passed without a letter.  Two letters remain in Oregon from over a week ago.  I've tried to be patient but I want so badly to read the contents even if I did receive a letter this week.  Hearts are made only to take so much pressure.  The human heart has to worry about the distance the blood must go, the pressure necessary to transport it quick enough, and a rate which will not destroy the tissues itself.  Having a missionary in the field is symbolically likened unto a sprint which leaves the heart pounding fiercely.  Does it have the power to go the distance?  Can I survive the rate and pressure?  Well, I think that I can.  So I continue, day by day, looking for another day.