When I was young, the concept of a thousand years was too vast for my comprehension. When reading about historical events that long ago or hearing stories about our family that far back, they seemed too remote to be real. Thousand years seemed an interminable amount of time, not too different from epochs of geologic scale such as the Big Bang or the book of Genesis.
Now I am forty-four and, casually rounding up, have lived almost a half century. It sounds trite but some days it feels like those nifty near-fifty years went by in a blink. Then one day, as I was helping put on shoes for my six-year-old son (wasn’t it yesterday I was in his shoes?), he declared, “Daddy, it takes only twenty fifties to make a thousand. A thousand is really a small number.” I barely recall finishing tying his shoes.