Nothing is more personal than a handwritten card from a family member or friend. Opening the mailbox, I look for small envelopes with unique handwriting addressed on the outside. The bills, newspaper, and sales ads get lost while I look for the tiny gem just for me.
They say I make the cut-off for the millennial generation. Still, I live in utter denial that I could be associated with many ideals attached to entitlement and handouts. Yet, I do admit I love Amazon, and sending a text message does have its advantages. However, I still believe in phone calls, voicemails and no signal zones (I love them all equally).
There is something about a handwritten letter. My oldest, Eva, gets so frustrated when she makes a mistake writing and has to scribble it out. She wants it to be perfect. I explain that the mistakes are the reason it makes it to the keepsake folder.
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Looking at old letters and documents fascinates me. In the old days, 1700s/1800s, perhaps even before that, people would keep a pen and notebook by the front door so that those who came inside could leave a quick greeting or farewell. I saw one of these old books at my grandmother’s. Someone I didn’t know had left stamps in time for us to follow. The mistakes and shakiness in their writing were still visible for me to see over a hundred years later.
Writing desks were in every home. It was a place where the paper, quill, and ink were kept to write the letter. Many faced open windows where the light would pour in.
I do not have a writing desk, but you have heard me tell of my mother’s desk that now resides in our upstairs family room. It, too, sits near the window, where the sunshine can pour in, or I can watch the slow drip of rain as it falls onto the fences and glides down to the grass below.
Writing is an art, whether it is a card or a book. It takes time to write the perfect words, and the atmosphere makes it most charming.
Everything looks so neat when printed off from the computer (which I use often, as you can see), but it is missing the distinctive element of scratches and slants from unique handwriting.
A few weeks back I left my saddle with an Amish man to have it redone. It was my saddle from when I was a little girl. It needed lots of repairs, but I wanted it for my girls. He told me when he was finished he would mail me a letter and I could come pick it up. I smiled and told him that would be would be just fine.
I still love to carry my grocery list. The grocery list paper gets all wrinkled, and my girls scribble and scratch the items; it gets all smudged and perhaps has drool and chocolate on it. I also do nicely arranged handwritten lists in my planner. That way, I can scratch items off one by one; I can see the trail of where I have been. That all gets missed on the computer. I carry a journal in my purse to make notes when a thought comes to me about a story. Later, I can transfer to the computer, but the hard drive differs from what my children will want someday; it’s the handwritten notes on paper they will be looking for.
After my Grandaddy passed away, the siblings cleaned his house and found a basket full of greeting cards he had been given over the years. My dad found one of mine and a photo of our family. He said, “If you ever wondered how your Grandaddy felt about you, this says it all.” He had kept every card I sent him.
The other day, a friend of mine got sick. I had put on a pot of soup and finished making the cornbread when I yelled for the girls to make a get-well card. Nothing makes someone feel better than a card from a child. The girls rushed into the living room and pulled out their construction paper and markers. Eva and Charlotte brought me their cards when I finished packaging our deliveries. Eva had cut out hearts and made them into a card. She misspelled several words by a letter or two, and Charlotte’s card only contained scribbles. I told the girls how thoughtful these were and how sure I was that our friend would put them directly on her refrigerator. I assured them I would deliver with care.
On the way over, taking in the rolling hills and beautiful farms along a winding country road, my mind flooded with thoughts of the significant endeavors I was striving for. I was fighting off some discouragement, yet knowing God would come through. I thought about the homemade soup and cards I was about to drop off and realized- this was what it was all about. It wasn’t about me or the next big idea I had. It was about helping someone other than myself, putting a smile on someone’s face who had a rough week.
Most miracles don’t look like glitter falling from the sky. They come in tiny packages or, perhaps, homemade soup and greeting cards made from the heart.
“The salutation of Paul with my own hand, which is a sign in every epistle; so I write.” 1 Thessalonians 3:17
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