Today I’ll be sharing some things I’m: thinking reading listening enjoying praying + some extras
Thinking
This newsletter started as some scrawlings in a notebook. Have you noticed some things are better said with handwriting over typesetting? Something is lost when we move to the digital, for example the freedom to use the word “scrawlings” when the word is actually “scrawl,” which my computer so kindly pointed out with its red squiggly line. Despite the assistance of spell check and my ability to type much faster than I can write, I have a strong preference for the handwritten.
Handwriting has fascinated me since I was a child. I’ve always had a knack for noticing how different people formed their letters. Did you know that there are actually a few nuances in how children are taught to write the alphabet? You and I might not have been taught the same. And even if we had, we don’t write exactly the way we were taught now as grownups. We have styles and flourishes—albeit sometimes not all for the sake of pursing beauty or clarity. In middle school, I made a conscious decision to change how I formed my letters because I thought my words looked too childish. Now my daughter likes to correct how I write my ‘y’s. Even while every single person writes slightly different, for the most part, we understand one another. Our brains can account for the slight variations in the lines and curves to discern meaning.
Despite my love for handwriting, I’ve lost my ability to write in cursive, my signature is atrocious, and I often cannot decipher my own notes. If I desired to be dramatic, I’d say that many eloquent thoughts have been lost to illegible scribbles. I seriously need to work on it. But there’s more than just a pursuit of aesthetically beautiful words. Handwritten anythings are a part of us.
Early in Frank’s and my relationship, we decided not to spend what little money we had on cards, but instead to write letters. Long or short, it didn’t matter. Birthdays, Christmas, Valentine’s, Thursdays: we exchanged handwritten notes. When I reread all the letters that Frank ever wrote me, it’s as if I can feel his presence because in a way, it is a piece of him. It’s him from a moment in time when he sat down to write something meaningful to his wife or fiancé or girlfriend or the girl he wanted to take out for coffee. Reading those notes transports me to a different time, where the words on the pages hold all the love and affection and tenderness to be experienced again at each reading. Letters are custodians of moments in the past which my memory tends to fail to remember in detail. Every stroke of his letters was influenced by an evolving lifetime of living and learning, a lifetime special to him.
It’s about the words, except it’s not exclusively about the words. The choice of paper. Frank would find a random piece of paper (usually brightly colored) and cut the sheet into a nonstandard size, folding it in half to create a sort of obscure card. This became uniquely and predictably him. I never asked why he did this. The choice of ink. Usually a standard ballpoint pen. Sometimes it was the purple one I knew he kept with his Bible. The address. Did he write to me as “my wife” or “the best mama in the world.” This usually impacted the content of the letter. The occasion. He had different purposes for writing each time, either because of whatever was on his heart, or what I needed to hear from him. Was this an anniversary letter, reflecting on the promises we made however many years ago, or was this a random middle-of-the-work-day note because he just needed me to know how much he loved me. By writing a letter, he made a series of arbitrary decisions in the act of creating something. Something worth far more than the sum of its parts. A letter is an intimate moment held as if it’s a time capsule itself. In reading, I can hear the college guy who was madly in love, but who hadn’t yet said “I love you” as he tries to show his affection in words without scaring the girl away. It’s a momentary experience of that version of him, and then I put the note back in the box.
Handwritten letters are a paradox. They are timeless and timebound. You can read and reread, but you’ll only ever experience the person as they were in that moment in which they wrote. And when we reread, we bring with us all the life that’s happened since that letter was written. For example, “I will try to show you how much I love you and how thankful I am for the rest of my life” was special when he wrote it. But when he died a week later, the rest of his life promise became deeply precious, because turns out that’s what he did. His letters have only become more beautiful and valuable to me. Somehow, a collection of fragile paper stained by water-based ink helps me feel like our love is permanent, even if our marriage was ended by death. The collection of notes together create a tapestry of seasons, good and bad, blissful and tragic that recount who we were in those moments. It’s a beautiful privilege to run my fingers over those threads and treasure him in his handwritten words.
So I prioritize handwriting letters even more than before. I write to Lois, putting part of me on a paper for her to read when she’s older. I want her to know how it sounds, how it feels, and how it looks when I tell her, “I love you.” I can’t help but envision the day I’m long gone and she has these notebooks and papers, something of me to hold. I want her to hear the words her mother wrote on her birthdays as well as on the worst days of our lives. Through my words, she will be able to, in a sense, go back in time and live moments that she was too small to remember. She can peer through a window into my prayers for her, as I write those too. She’ll see the labor of my own pen as I go before the throne on her behalf. As she is only beginning to learn to write her own letters, I’m writing to her so that one day she will know her mama’s handwriting and her mama’s heart.
Handwritten letters aren’t magic, but I think they are a grace. In a digital world, where words can easily be typed and just as easily deleted. Writing takes time, intention, intimacy. If they are mailed, they quite literally go through a lot to reach us. They are collectable in a way that actually takes up space. We have to make room for them, find them a place. And while the paper ages, the words never change. The act of reading and rereading refreshes our soul.
I’ve been sent a lot of letters over the last couple of years. Reading each one, I can feel the courage of the person who risked saying something less than helpful by writing to me. By sitting down and pulling out a pen, they were sealing up a part of themselves and drawing near to me in my pain. They let their heart run with the ink as they wept with me. The stack of letters is a crowd of people who were not afraid of my suffering.
Tonight I’ll write another letter to Lois, and I’ve added a couple people to a list of whom I need to write to.
Maybe think about buying some simple stationary and stamps? (I recommend before July; I’ve heard the cost of stamps is going up again.)
Reading
Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis
This was another book I got because it happened to be available on Libby. I did a quick google search and found that C.S. Lewis considered this book his best fiction writing.
“I say, therefore, that there is no creature (toad, scorpion, or serpent) so noxious to man as the gods. Let them answer my charge if they can. It may well be that, instead of answering, they’ll strike me mad or leprous or turn me into beast, bird, or tree. But will not all the world then know (and the gods will know it knows) that this because they have no answer?”
The main character is writing a case against the gods, but later reflects on what she has written. I was captivated. The book is technically a retelling of the story of Psyche and Cupid (but I don’t think you need to know about the original story to enjoy the book), and it’s deeply philosophical. The story gets intense sometimes, but it’s been a while since I read a book where I just had to read another chapter before going to bed. That’s the best feeling when reading a work of fiction. I loved everything about it, and I’m still mulling over the ending…
Adorning the Dark by Andrew Peterson
I’m really only familiar with Andrew Peterson’s music, but of the times I’m heard him talk about the art of songwriting, I was intrigued to read this book. I love his discussion art and creating in the context of a broken world. Upon finishing, I just wanted to write all the poems stuck in my head. Even if you don’t consider yourself an artist, I’d recommend the book for the theological discussion.
Listening
Learning to Pray with Blair Linne
This episode is part of Journeywomen’s “Back to the Basics” series. I want to incorporate more intentional, structured prayer into my life, as well as in my parenting. This podcast was an encouragement and offered some practical suggestions.
Enjoying
Madewell Overall Shorts
I will be spending the summer in these overall shorts. They are the perfect fit and length. Super functional and super cute. They are Madewell, but I bought them on ThredUp. I can’t seem to find this pair online anywhere, so no link, sorry.
Our Garden
I am not a gardener, but Lois has been begging to have a garden. So we are giving an attempt at growing some tomatoes and herbs. Although we have not harvested anything, it’s been successful so far.
Praying
Endurance as June, July, & August encompass a lot of heavy days. I know that going into these days, I do better when I have a plan, but coming up with plans takes a lot of emotional and mental energy. Prayers appreciated.
Gratefulness for getting to be Lois’ Mama. She turns 4 this month, and I just can’t believe she’s mine to love.
Extras
These handmade cards created by a dear friend. (I bought the “Grateful for You” ones)
This article I got to write for Journeywomen about Father’s Day and grief.
thanks for joining me here on the south porch
Alyson