"Write me a letter, send it by mail"

“Write me a letter, send it by mail”

     Letter writing is seen today as a quaint relic of a bygone era.  Yes, I mean snail mail.

    Yet I like receiving letters and I also like writing them. I like looking at people’s distinctive handwriting and remembering the writer—my father’s angular style, a holdover from using German script, my mother’s less practiced style, my brother’s scrawl,  one sister’s typed letters with hand-written postscript, and another’s written on her lap or wherever she was perched with a few minutes to spare. Each letter brings back memories of the senders and draws them close. 

    I use email. It’s quick and efficient.  But when, later,  in conversation, I mention something I had mentioned in an email, I get a vague response, “Well, yes, I remember seeing something about that in an email from you…” I get the feeling that reading a message on the tiny phone screen doesn’t seem important and gets glitched over .

    I scroll through Facebook quickly because much of it is stuff copied from other people’s stuff and I am looking for personal stuff that will tell me what is going on in people’s lives.  

    So I like letters, real ones, with words written on personal letterhead or scrap paper, quickly or slowly penned, carefully or sloppily.    
  

    I thought about what real letters mean to me as I photocopied a stack of my father’s letters to send to an archivist.  I re-read the one he wrote shortly after my husband died.  He was about 1500 miles away. The year was 1962. “We don’t know what to say, Katie. But I do not want you to suffer.” “Not” was underlined several times.  He told me to phone his bank manager if I needed money. “I want you to write a check or checks as needed to our Blaine Lake bank… Don’t get stuck and suffer. I mean it.”  The last three words were also underlined in red. “Chin up, be strong.” 

     I have often wondered whether he was thinking of his own mother widowed during the typhus epidemic that followed the Russian Revolution. She arrived in Canada in 1923 from Ukraine with no real means of support. Did he remember how she struggled to make ends meet in the new land? 

     In another letter he reminded me, “Remember you are a Funk.” I tacked that to my bulletin board for a long time. His concern for me and my young children came through clearly.

     In a whimsical mood he began one letter: “Dear loving, talented, charming, devoted, unselfish, smart, clever, ingenious, loyal, honest, hard-working, admirable child!!!!”  Where did he get that string of adjectives?  Certainly not his usual language. We developed a bond through letters though he was several thousand miles away.  

     He sometimes retreated into the past in his longer letters to share experiences about his childhood, the Russian revolution and its aftermath of anarchy and famine.  These were the ones the archivist was interested in.  

     For decades he subscribed to a periodical to which I was a regular contributor. When I quit writing my biweekly column after thirty years, he let their subscription lapse. But he commented often – “Katie, I agree with what you said….”  “Katie, be careful, don’t go against the wind. You’ll get sand in your eyes.”  “Critics can be brutal…”

     Mother was the caretaker of the letters when they arrived. The envelope was carefully slit open and the precious pages removed to be read and re-read. Then they were placed in a basket on the coffee table to be able to check a detail again or to allow visiting children an opportunity to read them. Mother then stored them with other letters. You don’t throw away life blood.

     Mother and Dad were devastated whenever the postal workers in Canada went on strike and, sometimes, for weeks at a time, they were without this letter lifeline. Phoning was not yet the comfortable practice it is today. Words spoken over the airwaves were forgotten too quickly, not always clearly understood. And, in early days, too expensive. 

     So I cherish letter writing that still brings the passion and distinct personality  of the writer across the miles that Tweets, emails, texting with its new vocabulary never will.   These have their place in our modern, fast world, but let’s not neglect the personal message. Send me a letter, send it by mail. 

Night Song

The mother of a friend died last week. She was my age.  It caused me to think again of what I had written in my book Prayers of an Omega: Facing the Transitions of Aging.

Night Song

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me (Psalm 23:4).

Tonight, Lord, as I sit by the window watching the shadows deepen, I think about death, the passage to another life—eternal life. I too must travel that way. I don’t know when.

Each morning the newspaper brings news of those who died the day before. I check their ages. I pass over those who lived their allotted lifespan and then some.

But I linger over the obituaries of those who died while quite young—a fifteen-year-old in a car accident, a thirty-two-year old with no stated cause of death. But the word is already out that it was a self-inflicted gunshot to the head. And then there’s an infant who died at birth.

The spring of life is no time to die. Then, young people, like plants, rush into leaf and burst into bloom.

Nor is it time to die when you are strong and healthy. Nor when the much-anticipated retirement time arrives, bringing the opportunity to set aside former activities for the challenge of self-determined tasks.

It isn’t even time to die at my age. As long as I’m alive, every tiny cell in my body fights to hold off the invading enemy cells. But people die at every age, and the ranks of my friends are thinning with each year.

When I think about death, I’m like a child at play who doesn’t want to go to bed just yet Playing outside in the empty lot was always most fun at the magic moment just before Mother called us in. We couldn’t tear ourselves away to come in to wash up and go to bed.

I don’t want to die just yet.

I want to hear the Messiah sung against this Christmas.

I want to see my grandson graduate from high school and my granddaughter from middle school.

I want to hold in my arms my new great-grandchild and watch her learn to walk.

Today I laughed at Annette’s jokes until the tears ran. Tomorrow I want to laugh some more.

I want to hold my friend’s hand when she returns from the chemotherapy that doesn’t seem to help.

I want to tell my children again how much I love them. I never do it often enough.

And yet on the other side of the street stands a tree, bent by the wind, scarred by storms, bare of leaves. The city crew marked it with a big orange X, which means it will be cut down. It has finished living. Does it contemplate its dying? Does it fear it?

Am I afraid to die? Shall I be afraid when the time comes? It will come, I know.

At twilight, light loses and darkness wins. Yet night is the promise of day  even as death is the promise of life and love and of the joy of your nearness, heavenly Father. 

I don’t want to go just yet, Lord. But when I hear you calling it’s time to come in, I’ll be ready, for I trust your mercy. Amen.

Running interference when you are old

This is another selection from my book Prayers of an Omega.  At my age it seems as if there is little one can do for children and grandchildren.  But there is!  Join me in running interference for our children.

Running interference when you are old

Pray continually (1 Thess.5:17)

God, coach of my team, tonight I’m running interference. It’s hard work. My feet are tired, my heart is pounding, and my breath comes short. It looks as if the offense is going to get the ball and run with it unless I help stop them. I want the children to win this game.

The children of this world seem much too  young to do battle with what their eager eyes see, their open ears hear, their ready mouths taste, their inexperienced bodies feel, and their vulnerable minds are encouraged to imagine.

The bright promise of instant happiness, overpowering thrills, and quick money dances temptingly before them. The world invites them to become gluttons of its colorful display of experiences. It encourages them to waste their talents on selfish concerns.

Satan’s got the ball and is running to the goal line with it. And he scores far to often. With the young girl who was bored with school and ran away from home. With the young boy who couldn’t resist finding out what it felt like to be really high. With the college student who has decided that making more money than his father did is a significant goal.

And so I intercede for them, Giver of all good gifts. Cleanse their ambitions. Help them to learn to play the game of life well.

Remind them to put on the shoulder pads of faith and love before they leave for school each day. May the hope of salvation be their helmet to protect them in head-on crashes with the enemy.

May they remember their Creator in the days of their youth. May you become their coach and the owner of their team, guiding them through this difficult passage to the end zone. Let them not be afraid of hard work – or failure.

Give me endurance to run interference for them daily. I am older. I am more experienced. I know the wiles of the enemy a little better. I’ve played the game of life much longer. Answer my prayer for these children.

In  your holy name, Lord  Jesus, I pray. Amen.

This old dog learned a new trick today

A friend wrote me about a family rift that was long standing.  It had endured for several decades. I was reminded of this prayer/poem I wrote in my book Prayers of an Omega: Facing the Transitions of Aging.

Blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered (Ps. 32:1).

I come before you, almighty God, Redeemer, forgiver of sins, with my tail between my legs.  Today you taught this old dog a new trick. Not that you didn’t try to teach me this before, but I never caught on. You spoke to me  about it again and again, but I didn’t want to learn.

I believed in Christ’s love. I knew and cherished your forgiveness of my sin. But I couldn’t forgive her for what she had done to me. And I never saw my hardness as sin.

Today I learned that an older person like myself can forgive someone even for something that happened long ago but left a bad and lingering memory. 

The hurt happened unexpectedly—she made fun of the way I talked in front of my friends. She ridiculed me—and I could never forget. Every time I thought of her, my hurt leaped onto my back like an angry cat I couldn’t shake off.

I often thought what I would like to say to her if I ever got her alone.  In the night hours when I couldn’t sleep, I prepared long speeches that would make her sit back and recognize her offense.

Other times I dismissed it. Just a problem in personal relationships, I told myself. Stay apart. But this robbed me of the opportunity to know her better and to benefit from her friendship.

Yet, Lord, I reminded you often she had no right to speak of me in that way, especially before my friends. She had turned me into a useless piece of trash thrown into the gutter.

I tried to numb myself to the pain. No use. 

I lost the joy of fellowship with you because her face always stood between you and me. I became bitter and watchful of her and of others. I wanted her to admit her guilt. Then I’d forgive her.

Then you showed me through your Word that  you set up no preconditions for forgiving. The father forgave the prodigal before he returned and made his big statement.

You showed me that my pain, my unforgiving spirit, was my problem, not hers. As long as I couldn’t forgive her, I was bound to her. The chains would become  tighter and more painful with the passing years.

So your word was “Forgive as I forgive. Seventy times seven. Release her. Don’t bind her to you with your anger.”  You said, “In faith, reach out and forgive. Let Christ’s work on the cross give you the power to do so.” 

And I did. I could say, “I forgive you, friend. I know you in your weakness and your strength. I see you as a person made in the image of God. I see you as person who also needs the love of Christ. I know you and I love you.” 

With these words, I was free. Free of my burden. She and I could start again. It didn’t matter if she felt guilty about her idle words. That was her problem with you. She may hurt me again, and I may have to forgive her again. But the slate has been cleared.

You have released me from the past, healed the present, and made the future a possibility of joy.  I praise your matchless name. Amen.

Saturday is Hymnday

This is another selection from my book Prayers of an Omega: Facing the Transitions of Aging 

Saturday is Hymnday

Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord, always giving thanks to God the Father for everything in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. (Eph.5:19-20)

Lord of song, I woke this morning with joy in my heart, for today is Saturday, and Saturday is Hymnday. This is my comfort time, my time to sing my way through the old hymnbook.

I don’t want to forget the old hymns I learned as a child, for then I’d be turning my back on our journey together. I’d forget some of your love toward me.

I need this old hymns like a desert traveler longs for water in a dry and thirsty land. I will need them till I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

Lord, you know I don’t like to complain, but I can’t get used to these new praise songs we’ll sing tomorrow in church. I try to clap and sway, but this old body doesn’t work that way. So Saturday I sing the old songs. To myself and to you.

They are a record of my pilgrimage with you these many decades. And this record of your faithfulness slips from me unless I go over it again and again.

“Sing them over again to me, wonderful words of life ….” That was the first piece I learned to play on the piano. And when your Word became wonderful to me, I enjoyed the hymn even more.

I liked singing “Shall we gather at the river?” because we actually gathered at the river for a baptismal service. Scores of your children celebrated the decision of young Christians to walk with you. And dozens of unbelievers from the community watched from a distance.  Outdoor baptismal services had something to say for themselves.

Our first choir song at college was “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.” From our director I learned to sing with meaning, not just to make sounds.

Each Sunday at the end of the service in the little white church, the congregation sang, “Take thou my hand, O Father, and lead thou me.”  This was more than a token song to end the service. It was a prayer asking you to go with each one of us in that congregation into the struggle of the week. Those were the Depression years. Not all of those people in their much-washed clothing were certain of enough food for the coming week. I never felt ready to leave until we had sung that song, even as today I don’t feel ready for the coming week until I have prayed that song.

We used to sing “There shall be showers of blessings” with more gusto than an overflow crowd at a close basketball game.  But we dragged through forty-seven verses of “Just as I am without one plea,” waiting for someone to heed the minister’s earnest call. Sometimes I felt like walking to the altar to make him feel better. But there was another time, another place, when I did come to you without one plea. That song reminds me of that coming and of our beginning life together.

“Great is thy faithfulness” and “How great thou art” bring tears to my eyes whenever I hear them. When it seemed everyone had deserted me, you, Lord, remained close. You gave strength to turn the valley of bitterness into a well of life.

The “thee’s” and “”thou’s” and other old-fashioned words that upset some people don’t bother me because I know you, the Giver of all words.

When I've sung the old hymns once again, my soul is at rest. They place my feet firmly in  your truth. Thank you for songs of faith that speak the language of my soul. Now I’m ready for tomorrow, for the tumbling loud music of today, and for all the rest.

Maybe, just maybe, when this generation is as old as I am, they’ll have their own Saturday, not hymn, but praise chorus day.  I’m betting on it, Lord.