Dear Friends,
A small envelope arrived in our mailbox yesterday. I opened it up and was greeted by a navy striped card with the words “Thank You” appearing through a rectangular window.
Inside, the large, cursive writing of my nephew John appeared and this penciled message: “Dear Aunt Terry and Gail/Thank you for the Christmas and birthday money. I’ll spend it wisely. (I chuckled at that. What is a wise purchase for an 11-year old boy?).
I can’t wait to see you in the summer. Love, Jack.”
I know I’ll have a hard time eventually throwing this card away. I may never do it. Getting handwritten notes is so rare these days. Jack told me that he isn’t allowed to have an iPhone until he is 13. So, I gather I may have two more years of sweet cards and loopy letters before we transition to text messages and becoming Facebook friends. The idea makes me feel a little sad. It’s a sort of rite of passage that exchanges a child’s innocence for electronic worldliness. I will lose a bit of Jack’s unique personality, too, by no longer coming in contact with his handwriting.
The handwritten note is an art that I would rather not see slip away. It so neatly captures a moment in time when one intentionally pauses and reflects. And all the actions associated with the handwritten note – from selecting the card and pen to addressing and stamping the envelope and putting it in the mailbox – speak volumes. Even before the letter is opened and the words are read, the recipient has gotten the message:
I matter.
But it seems my love for things handwritten puts me in the minority. In an article of the top 25 things vanishing from America, handwritten letters ranked 9th. The U.S. Postal Service has announced that it will eliminate Saturday mail service starting in August. Too much debt and too little volume, it seems.
Tom Barlow wrote, “In a world that thrives on acceleration, the handwritten letter calls us to a time more deliberate, elegant and gracious.” I think I’ll always love sending and receiving them. So, I suspect I’ll be hanging on, even as eager young boys grow up and move on.
Yours,
Terry