Clear packing tape holds in place the warped, green lid on an old, plastic box. The bin stored plates, cups and assorted midnight snacks in my 1990s college dorm room. Now, it keeps letters.
Hundreds of them.
Some of the ink has faded. The memories are fresh.
There are notes passed between friends during middle school math class. Cards carried through two summers as a Baptist student missionary. Long-ago letters that link me to people I’ve loved and who’ve loved me.
No one has loved me as my daddy did.
His letters are not among the stacks in those storage containers. They are set aside in a safe, much like a treasure box. It seems an appropriate place, for the Bible tells us “where our treasure is, there our heart will be.”
Daddy’s letters are my treasure. I call them “postmarked prayers.”
He offered me instruction:
“… be careful, say your prayers and DO NOT TRUST YOURSELF with anybody that you don’t know. Always let someone know where you are going and with whom you are with.” – October 16, 1997
And also detailed little slices of life:
“… I planted some gardenias at the end of the house and your mother love them…” – May 20, 1997
“… I am going golfing tomorrow. My vacation is about over and it went by fast. I have done some work on our house and Donald also…” – October 16, 1997
“… Mother has gone to bed and I am washing clothes…” – September 12, 1998
Daddy wrote to me regularly once I moved away to college and then into my own apartment. His letters were a buoy, keeping me afloat and marking my path home, as I began to navigate life on my own.
My youngest daughter, Lily, mailed a letter this week for the first time. She misses her classmates, one especially, so I suggested this archaic form of communication.
She meticulously penciled, in her very best handwriting, words to her best third-grade friend. She asked me to proofread her punctuation. She eagerly addressed the envelope and the next morning marched it to the mailbox herself. Now, she waits for the reply.
If this quarantine extends, she may need a bin, too.
There is another letter of significance to me, one that has lasted generations. It is written by Paul to believers in the city of Philippi. One of its purest sentiments is penned post-script in many of the cards and letters stored in my old, plastic box.
“I give thanks to my God for every remembrance of you…” – Philippians 1:3
It is not Paul’s most profound or provoking thought. Perhaps that’s why it is so impactful. The expression is simple. It embodies care and connection.
We can all use a little bit more of those things, don’t you think?
Letters are a lifeline in the moment, and a timeline when the moment has passed. Whether they are bound in a Bible or held in place with packing tape, letters tell our stories.
Daddy’s.
Lily’s.
Paul’s.
And maybe, starting now, yours.
“Don’t collect for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal. But collect for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys, and where thieves don’t break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
(Matthew 6:19-21)
