Even though technology has greatly affected our methods and speed of written communication, it is still likely that all of us will write at least a few hand-jotted notes or letters in our lifetime. Just like I enjoy the feel, weight, sight, and smell of a printed book, there’s something about a letter written by hand that connects with my soul more than a typed or e-formatted letter ever could. I think it has something to do with the heart of the writer that is reflected in the personally sculpted words and sentences. And it is delightful to reach into my mailbox, sift through the bulk mailings, and find a card or note that declares quietly, “I think highly enough of you to give of my time and send you personal thoughts and wish you well.” It is a connection over the course of days between the thoughts of the sender and my heart communing with one another.

When I moved a few months ago, I tried hard to pack mindfully and toss out some old stuff I didn’t need anymore. Of course, in the final crazy hours, however, I was forced to throw a number of items in boxes…boxes which somehow magically ended up shoved in a closet… (What was that I blogged the other week about putting things off until later?)

I started going through one of those boxes last night and came across some old and very precious letters, including one of the last ones my grandmother was strong enough to write to me with her own hand – heaping with just as much love as anything she’d ever written.

Near the bottom of the stack was a series of lengthy notes from a beloved cousin. I reread them, nearly 20 years after they were first sent, and was touched by the truth I still found there. Not only truth of what a wonderful person she is, but also timeless truth about God and life. In the last of that series, she told me all she’d been learning recently about the importance of praising and thanking God more than asking Him for things in prayer. As I read, I was greatly convicted because I’ve been praying a lot lately, but the number of gratitude and affirmation statements has been so small compared with the number of requests.

I was humbled. And I went to bed and woke up praising and thanking extensively before I could even think of making another request.

Who knows if any of the hundreds of hand-written letters I have already sent will be kept by anyone for years, even after my death? But today I reflect and consider: what we write in our letters not only has power to encourage today, but it may also speak truth and impact people more than we will ever know in the future.