letters

Nestled deep within my little mailbox today were three letters. All of them with my name carefully handwritten on the front in black pen. Each of them from different countries – Iraq, Japan, the United States. I sat for a minute on my couch with them in my lap, admiring the envelopes which seemed to mimic the senders’ personalities. There was a moment where I thought I might not open any of them; I could leave them unopened on my dining table until I had a day that was completely void of compassion or thoughtfulness. I could hide them away in my desk drawer until I had an empty day. Because sometimes I get so tired of being the one who speaks all the time. The one who writes the letters. Sometimes I neglect the sanctity of a moment to nourish my own spirit. And so I wanted to hold on tightly to these three letters that so advantageously turned up at the same time as a reminder that it is foolishness to think that I’ve been left alone. To make the mistake of Elijah and cry out in despair when there is a remnant. As a reminder that though the body of the woman was torn for the 12 tribes and scattered, it was still one body.

“Somewhere we know that without silence words lose their meaning, that without listening speaking no longer heals, that without distance closeness cannot cure.” Henri Nouwen