Pandemic Reflections: I Believe in Writing Letters
Something new that has happened for me this week is I’ve experienced a few tears—mostly for the beauty surrounding me. I notice that when I simply let myself feel an emotion, it moves through me in a positive way that reminds me that I am complex and human. I love ALL of the emotions and am so glad to experience mine and listen when others share.
On Wednesday my younger son, Ben, (7th grade) shared with me a piece he wrote for school using the “This I Believe” model https://www.npr.org/series/4538138/this-i-believe. One of the things he wrote about was his accident in the fall, when he broke his right femur in half. I cried as I read his story, mostly because it reminded me of his bravery in the face of so much uncertainty in his life. It also reminded me that our family can do hard and brave things together. It reminded me of the ways our community held us so close in love and generosity of spirit.
Ben inspired me to write my own “I Believe” on Wednesday night. I surprised myself by writing, “I believe in writing letters” and telling stories about my father, who wrote copious letters to me until his death 3 years ago. One of my father’s favorite mantras to me in challenging times was Theodore’s Roosevelt’s words about it being better to be in the arena, daring greatly. Even if failure is the final result, it is better to have tried.
Thank you… to all who enter into the arena every day to dare greatly, to touch and feel the texture of the unknown, to be present in the difficult circumstances of this pandemic.
Here are the simple guidelines for This I Believe: https://thisibelieve.org/guidelines/. It is a compelling way to remember our own grounding beliefs and stories and also to generously share ourselves and our stories with one another. I have witnessed beautiful things happen when we share the deep parts of ourselves.
What is it you believe right now?
I Believe in Writing Letters
For as long as I can remember my father has written me letters. These letters usually included newspaper clippings, relevant bible verses- once he even sent me a letter with a laminated plaque of his favorite prayer by St Francis of Assisi. When I was at summer camp as a child, I received letters with Shakespeare quotations; my father encouraged me to memorize and recite them upon my return, ensuring that they would one day be useful.
My father’s letters were always written on his yellow legal pads, barely legible but profoundly wise. I imagined him thinking of me during his busy days-- between cups of Folger’s black coffee, trials, and depositions. I sometimes wondered how he found time to practice law between writing me all of those letters. Childhood friends referred to my father as Atticus Finch, and, like Scout, I looked to him as I tried to make sense of my world.
When I was 16, I traveled alone to live with a family for the summer as an exchange student. This was before smart phones, email, or internet, and international calls were expensive. I arrived to this new land, jet-lagged and exhausted. My room felt bleak and lonely; I cried all night, wondering if this was a big mistake. I desperately wanted to go home. The next day my dad’s letter arrived. As if intuiting my trepidation and fear, my father ended the letter paraphrasing Theodore Roosevelt’s sentiment about it being better to be in the arena, daring greatly. Even if failure was the final result, it was better to have tried. My dad was telling me to be brave and that he believed in me. While I was not immediately convinced, these words clung to me with the tenacity of Velcro. This was my first brief and benign window into a world that would call me to be courageous and persevere in increasingly challenging life situations.
Three years ago my father died after a painful year of Parkinson’s brazenly stealing memories and words from him. In the days and weeks following his death, people wrote me letters. Each day I walked down my long driveway to the mailbox hoping for a letter. The letters were like tendrils stretching across the miles to hydrate me. People shared memories and stories about ways my father had touched their lives; he had written some of them letters too. Even as I ached with his absence, each letter was like a sprig of lavender in my hand. This cloud of witnesses was the pacemaker to my heart, giving it courage to beat in time with my grief.
We are now living through the uncertainty and unfamiliar land of a pandemic. I am a chaplain in elder care but can no longer visit the residents. Professionally and personally, I have to be creative about how to connect in meaningful ways with others. The days of being physically present, holding a hand, sharing a smile are halted. Zoom meetings are like kissing through a screen door. Some days I feel pin pricks of longing and fear like I did when I was a teenager far from my family. Waves of grief surprise me, and I cry unexpectedly. Yesterday I wondered what wisdom my father might impart. I remembered his call to be brave, to dare greatly, so I sat down at my desk, and I wrote a letter. I believe in writing letters.
