My friend’s church has initiated a novel Lenten practice, which is to write a letter every day in Lent and mail it: 40 letters in 40 days. The idea is to write something positive to someone important to you—friend or family, mentor or co-worker, or even someone you admire but have never met. Halfway through Lent, I have written to my children, my siblings, old friends, relatives and some folks I admire. I had to buy more stamps.
Old-school letter-writing is up my alley. Like many O.G. writers, I am obsessed with the mail. As the kids say: If you know, you know. In the olden days of freelance writing—the late 1900s as one young person recently said, speaking gingerly as though not to disturb the dust—all of my writing business with magazines and newspapers was conducted through the U.S. mail. I sent a self-addressed, stamped envelope (we insiders called it a SASE) with every submission, which was the acknowledged way to facilitate a reply. Answers from editors could take weeks or months, and they didn’t always come. I used to check the mail daily, stalked the mailman really, ready to pounce on anything that appeared in my own handwriting. It might, although not often, be good news! For the price of two stamps on the SASE, you could ask for your original (rejected) manuscript back. Then you could send it out again. My mail carrier once asked me what my deal was, why I mailed so many things to myself. Maybe all my work made his mailbag heavier.
My mail fixation goes back even further, to my childhood. I was a quiet, nerdy kid who liked corresponding with pen pals. I should have known then that I would be a writer. In high school and college, I had several long-distance romances that depended on the exchange of passionate letters. (Here’s where I get to say: Reader, I married the last one.)
Now my adult kids hardly ever check their mail, a generational difference that amazes me. They take care of almost all their personal business on their phones. I guess I cannot blame them since the bulk of our daily mail nowadays is junk. If I ever send my kids something in the mail, I text them to make sure they look for it in their actual mailbox.
I may be unusual in that I still get one or two handwritten letters a month: In the family tradition of nerdiness, my 15-year-old niece has been my pen pal for several years. I gave her stationery and sealing wax last Christmas, warning my sister beforehand so she could make sure the house doesn’t burn down, and I love receiving her letters with her initials imprinted on the envelope. Reading my niece’s letters helps me remember what it was like to be 15, albeit in the mid-1900s. I sometimes get handwritten letters from men I worked with in a prison library because prisoners don’t really have any other way to communicate cheaply with those of us on the outside. Other than that, most people use email or text to reach me socially. Handwritten letters in the mail are the dinosaurs of correspondence.
But this Lent I am writing away, and I am trusting the U.S. mail to deliver my letters. I already feel like I am cheating on my Lenten practice because I am writing to people on the free notecards (useful junk mail) you get with solicitations from charities. Instead of 40 letters, mine seem to be 40 cheery little notes. Certainly, a call would be easier, a text would be faster, and either of those would give me an immediate response. But we know from Jesus that the point of any Lenten commitment is not to make it about me: “Pray to your Father in secret,” and all that (Mt 6:6). I am sending out gratitude and appreciation, and the people receiving my letters are free to read them on their own time. They are not required to offer me any feedback. They needn’t even let me know that they have received a random letter from me. A Lenten lesson lies here: the grace of unknowing.
This commitment to writing letters hasn’t all been smooth sailing. When my friend told me about the 40 Letters of Lent, I was already four days into an uncharacteristically aimless Lent. I was adrift. To get on board, I wrote five letters in one day. Ideally, I want to write one thoughtful letter a day, but I find myself doubling up, writing two and then nothing, three and then nothing, planning to get to it and then nothing. It occurs to me that it’s the same approach that plagues my prayer life: a lengthy meditation, and then nothing. A rosary, and then nothing. A heartfelt outpouring to God, and then nothing. Maybe the thing I most need to learn this Lent is consistency.
Yesterday, I was going to write to a friend I haven’t seen for a while. We both moved. We live far apart now. I knew her husband had been ill, but I had not checked in with her recently. Today, she sent a group text with the information about her husband’s funeral. I’m not counting her condolence card as one of my 40 letters. I should have written to her sooner. I am jolted by the reminder that life, our time here with the people we love, is fleeting, so putting off reaching out to others can be fraught with regret. Another lesson: attentiveness.
My friend’s church has turned the 40 Letters of Lent into a weekly event: On Monday evenings, the church members are invited to get together and share some soup and write their letters. The pastor even provides stationery and stamps, so there is no excuse not to participate. I love that they have combined the intimate act of writing a letter with the communal gathering of like-minded souls. They have married outreach with community, a union that is among the best traditions and practices of churches.
I am writing my letters on my own, aided by a cup of tea, at the comfort of my kitchen table. But I am warmed by the thought of all the letters going out in the mail, through rain or snow or heat or gloom of night, and landing in the mailboxes of everyone whose day may be brightened by the arrival of a missive of love. I guess calling them Lenten valentines would be some kind of oxymoron, but maybe not. I am grateful that my friend has given my Lent a measure of direction and meaning. I should write her a letter.
