Letters

My Dad was up at 5 a.m., sitting at the kitchen table, coffee percolating on the stove, writing letters and postcards to all manner and condition of people. When I left home, he wrote to me often, about the weather and this and that. I have those cards and letters somewhere in a box and I need to read them over. Truth is, I didn’t pay them much mind at the time, too busy was I with my own life. I expect it was good for my Dad to write to me about the hometown team and my mother’s condition and how my grandmother might like to get a ‘postal’ from me whenever I could find the time. Now I am the letter-writer. Sitting at the same wooden table, I fish through the box for the right bit of paper and an envelope that probably doesn’t match. I write the address of one of my sons on the envelope, knowing I will not likely hear in return.

Go in peace to love and serve the Lord!

Josh