The Collected Letters of [Insert Name Here]

Letter-writing is a lost art.

I think this realization strikes me most when I read the biographies of people like Edith Stein or C.S. Lewis or Flannery O'Connor, people whose spiritual enlivening and artistic sense were so indelibly set in ink. They needed dialogue, they craved a space in which they could be honest, a space in which they could be vulnerable. Sometimes it is so much easier to put words on a page than it is to speak them into wide open space. For them, writing letters meant growth, it meant delving deeper and stretching higher.

Why don't we write letters anymore? Not just "Hey, how are you? How does your garden grow?" sorts of letters, but letters that have meaning. So much meaning that after you die people collect your correspondence and publish it all in a book so people can digest your thoughts, read your insides.

Relationship-building is so transitory these days, and far too often so very superficial. Phone calls, because we don't have the time for visits; emails, because we don't have the time for phone calls; texts, because we don't have the time for emails. Soon the relationships between One and the Other has been reduced to "how r u? omg, i had the funniest day, lol." And this, my friends, is a sad thing. A sad thing, indeed.

It takes effort to search each other out. Really, I think one person knowing another-- truly knowing another--is a miracle. Even my relationships with family members, those I've known since I emerged into the Outside World from my mother's womb, confirm this. As I begin to know them better with age, I realize how far I have yet to go. Truly, the only one who knows us all the way down is the One Who fashioned us.

So. As I read about people who wrote letters to truly know one another, I feel nostalgic. I feel as though I'm missing out. I stretch humanity out in my mind's eye, and then I zoom in. I zoom in and see all the faces, face after face after face. And they all have something to say, whether inane or beautiful or heartbreaking or hideous. How is it that we've allowed ourselves to become so disconnected from the faces?

Honestly, at this point in life conversation is sparing. I am so grateful when I get the chance to have it--as of right now I live (contentedly, as often as I can!) in my little apartment. Teaching, grad class, church, teaching, grad class, church...and so my days fill up. But I miss the conversations that were my luxury in college. The searching out.

I'll close with an invitation. You can take me up on it if you'd like--whoever you may be!--but don't feel compelled. If what I've said resonates with you and you want to do something about it, then send me a letter and I'll send one back. I'm not saying that it has to turn into a brilliant back-and-forth-as-long-as-we-both-shall-live correspondence; perhaps you will just send me one letter and I will just send you one in return. Even that is something, is it not?

If you think you'd like to take me up on it but don't have my mailing address, you can a) leave a comment or (for those who might want to remain anonymous to the rest of the blogosphere) you can b) use this little contact form gadget I added not too long ago ------------>

It will send me an email with your message, and then I can email you my mailing address.

With that being said, enjoy getting to know the faces around you. Wherever you may be.