Have you noticed that going to the mailbox isn’t nearly as much fun as it used to be?
I don’t know about you, but for me? Most days it’s pretty predictable. There are bills that need paying, advertisements for things I never knew I needed, and a handful of sales flyers that usually find their way to the recycling bin before I ever make it back inside the house. Every once in a while, there’s a package, and that’s always a nice surprise – even if I did have to order something myself to get it.
But actual letters? The kind someone sat down and wrote by hand? Those have become pretty rare. I think that’s a shame.
Somewhere along the way, we traded handwritten letters for emails, text messages, and emojis. I understand why. They’re quick, convenient, and they let us stay connected throughout the day. I do all of that too, and I appreciate the ones sent to me.
But I don’t think any of those things have ever replaced the feeling of opening your mailbox and finding an envelope with your name written across the front in someone else’s handwriting. Before you’ve even opened it, you already know something important.
Someone was thinking about you. They stopped what they were doing long enough to find a pen, a piece of paper, a stamp, and just sit for a little while with you in their thoughts. That’s a gift all by itself.
When I was about seven years old, I started writing letters to one of my great-uncles. He was much older than I was, but somehow that never mattered. We wrote back and forth for years, and looking back now, I realize what a remarkable gift that was. I doubt either one of us thought we were doing anything extraordinary. We were simply staying in touch the way people had always stayed in touch.
Those letters became conversations that happened one envelope at a time. Maybe that’s why I’ve never quite lost my affection for writing letters.
These days, we often measure communication by how quickly it happens. We send a message, see the little bubbles appear, and know someone has read it within seconds. There’s certainly nothing wrong with that. Some conversations are meant to be quick. Others deserve a little more time, thought, and attention.
There are moments in life that simply don’t belong in a text message. A wedding. The birth of a baby. The loss of someone you love. A graduation. A milestone that took years to reach. Those moments deserve more than a thumbs-up emoji and two words that say, “Congratulations!” Some moments deserve more than a quick reply. They deserve your own words. Not perfect words. Just your words.
I’ve learned that people rarely remember whether a letter was beautifully written. They remember how it made them feel. They remember that someone cared enough to write it.
One of my friends reminds me of that every so often. Whenever too much time passes between letters, she’ll smile and say, “Just send me a letter.” Not an email. Not a text. A real, honest to goodness letter – with a stamp on the envelope.
Truth be told, I have to confess something. Arthritis has convinced me that my enthusiasm for writing is sometimes greater than my hands are willing to accommodate. These days I occasionally type my letters instead of writing them in longhand. I felt guilty about that at first, until I explained why. The response surprised me.
No one cared. They weren’t waiting to admire my handwriting. They simply wanted to hear from me.
I think that’s an important lesson all by itself. Sometimes we don’t reach out because we convince ourselves it has to be done perfectly. We’ve taught ourselves that we need the right stationery, the right pen, the perfect words, or enough uninterrupted time to write a proper letter.
Meanwhile, someone we love would probably be delighted with two handwritten pages on notebook paper. Or one typed page. Or a simple card that says, “I was thinking about you today.” The point was never the paper or the perfection. It was always the person.
Not too long ago, a young man I know left for Army boot camp. His phone calls home were understandably limited, and his parents deserved those precious few conversations. But I couldn’t help thinking about Mail Call and what it must be like to hear your name called because someone took the time to write.
That kind of encouragement still matters. Maybe more now than ever.
I suppose that’s why I hope handwritten letters never completely disappear. It’s not because I’m against technology. Far from it. It’s because letters ask something of us that modern technology rarely does.
They ask us to slow down for a little while…
A letter doesn’t have to be long. It doesn’t have to be clever or particularly interesting. It simply has to be sincere.
Years from now, I doubt anyone will pull out an old cell phone just to reread a text message from twenty years ago. But I know people who still have shoeboxes filled with letters. There’s probably a reason for that. Words written from the heart have a way of becoming keepsakes.
So the next time you find yourself thinking about someone—a friend, a grandparent, a former neighbor, a young soldier, or anyone else who suddenly crosses your mind—maybe don’t settle for thinking, I really should get in touch.
Pull out a sheet of paper instead. Pour yourself a glass of sweet tea, settle into a quiet chair for a little while, and write the letter.
Somewhere, there’s a mailbox that’s been filled with nothing but bills and advertisements for weeks.
I have a feeling your envelope would be a wonderful surprise.
And if you happen to smile while you’re writing it…
…don’t be surprised if the person opening it smiles, too.
Come Back Anytime…
…I’ll leave the porch light on for you.
Until next time…travel safely.
Stroll Down Another Path
Another Porch Conversation
There’s always room for one more conversation.
Hands at Work
Sometimes the best conversations continue with busy hands
Another Garden Path
When one conversation naturally leads to another.
The Bookshelf
Stories, books, and favorite reads that have found a place on my shelf.
Front Porch
Head back to the porch and see what’s new.
Leave a Note on the Porch