letters

I’m not really good at picking out a card. I am the worst gift giver that I know. But, I can write a pretty mean check and if I do have a forte’, it’s writing letters.

I don’t write lots of letters and send them about everywhere to everyone. Maybe when I move past this crazy stage of life with kids, I will. But, there are a few of you that I write often, regularly to share my heart.

I have a copy of every letter that I have ever sent you. I definitely have a copy of any return script.

I have the scribbles from my children and the notes students jotted down toward my eyes. I have a thick ribbon-tied stack of correspondence between me and my best friend, Kim, from our high school days. I have all the letters that my mentors, who were in college at the time, sent to me during their summers away from Athens. I have a series of letters “my girls” from youth group exchanged with me their turbulent tenth grade year. I have copies of anything that I have shared with Ignatius and my readers, and their responses to those fumblings. I have copies of the letters I write every year to my seniors. I have  copies of countless recommendation letters which I penned for hopeful seekers.  I have every phrase you great writers have sent my way by email or Facebook message or occasionally text.

I have those words saved and sealed, not to sell, I promise writer friends, but to savor.

In times of struggle and disbelief, I have returned to them. I have let them re-ignite those things you once saw in me, somehow cared to mention and called out to greater volume.

I reread, so I suspect that others may as well.

So, I write letters, when a word spoken might do, but can’t be remembered, reincarnated, returned to… nearly so easily.

Today, we the students, will write letters, and hopefully regain what is nearly lost… the art and the essence of a word written specifically for another.

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1 Comment

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One response to “letters

  1. Letter writing is truly a lost art…in fact writing – I mean with a pen and paper – is something I’ve found myself doing less of. Most of my thoughts get banged out on a keyboard. One of my favorite things to do is look through old photos and it’s always a treat to look on the back and see the swirling flourishes of my grandmother’s handwriting. It also warms my heart so much to look through my kid’s artwork and the sweet scribbly scrawl of my youngest or the early refining of my oldest’s handwriting. It’s a personal mark to show that someone has been there, someone who took a moment to enscribe something on paper with their own hand.

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