Letters

It had been an exhausting day. The end of the quarter is a mad rush to get grades finalized, to plan for special events, rewards for the first quarter of hard work, and organizing a cow eye dissection for my class.

I came in humming the song that was blasting through my speakers as I rolled through cornfields on my way back from school. But it was a distracted humming. An exhausted humming. It was a feeble attempt to block the thoughts that tumbled in my mind of all that was left to do before the weekend that was just a day away, yet impossibly distant.

I dropped my heavy red bag, my teacher texts on my bed, my lunch box, my coat, and kicked off my shoes. Then I saw them. A small stack of letters. I rushed over to the kitchen counter and peered at them. I was expecting mail. But three? In one day?

I told myself I should wait to open them until I put things away, tidied, got changed. Perhaps I should use them as a reward. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I knew I did not have enough self-control for that.

I cleared a spot on my bed and flopped down to examine the letters. Familiar handwriting from dear people. I tore into the first, read it voraciously. Re-read it. Smiled, giggled. Opened the second, looked at the attached magazine clippings, smiled again, and folded it, savoring the words.

The third was a long-expected letter from a friend back home who has been my best friend since fifth grade. Her letter was a "good-bye you're moving letter" but also a deeply moving letter, reflecting on how our friendship has grown and changed throughout the years. I smiled once again, teared up a bit, then all out sobbed. Then smiled through my tears, the familiar salty taste making my tongue tingle.

Once again, I folded it up and stored it back in its envelope.

I pondered the joy of a good hand-written letter. What's so special about it?

The fact that somebody took the time to write. To think of me, and to show me they had thought of me. To encourage me and tell me the things I'm doing well even on days when I lose sight of why I'm doing them. Because they know me. They know what will make me chortle, what will bring the tears that need to be released, and what will make me feel valued.

Since starting to teach, it has been so much harder for me to stay in the Word. The last thing I feel like doing is reading an age-old book full of things my head knows but my heart forgets. I invent all sorts of distractions for myself until I fall into bed exhausted at the end of the day.

Today as I took a moment to pause, journal, pray, and read those Words, I was deeply convicted. How eager am I to read letters that find their way to my kitchen counter, yet Words that have spanned time and cultures, Truths that have not wavered, yet continue to be so personal are put aside. Promises, encouragements, Words spoken by my Living God.

not interesting? not worth it? really?

The Scriptures are my longest letter... written to everyone, yet written to ME, sympathizing with every emotion, setting examples, showering promises, and most of all, grace. Grace even in weakness.

My head knows. My heart forgets.