There was a time when hearing from someone meant waiting.
You waited for the mail to come. You recognized the handwriting on the envelope before you even saw the return address. And before the letter was even opened, you knew someone had taken the time to sit down, find a piece of paper, and write to you. Sometimes the letter came on carefully handpicked stationary because the letter meant something – you mean something. It was purposeful, intentional, and carried weight that cannot be measured.
We don’t do much waiting anymore.
A thought crosses our mind and within seconds we can send a text. We can type a quick email while standing in line at the grocery store or send a birthday greeting with a few taps on the screen. There is certainly something wonderful about being able to reach the people we love so easily.
But I wonder if, somewhere along the way, we have also lost something.
There is something different about a handwritten letter.
When someone sits down with a pen and paper, they have chosen to stop what they are doing and give their attention to another person. There is an intentionality to it that is difficult to duplicate on a screen.
I truly believe a little bit of the heart comes out on paper. What is in the heart and spirit seems to overflow through the stroke of a pen and drip onto the page. Maybe it is because writing by hand forces us to slow down. Our thoughts have time to become words, and we take consideration of them. The things resting in our hearts and spirits have a way of making their way onto the page.
A handwritten note says something before we ever read the first word:
I thought of you. You are worth my time. I wanted you to have this.
I still have letters written to me from school mates and friends I grew up with when writing was the way to keep in touch over the miles. I have letters that were written to me by both of my grandmothers that I have cherished over the years.
These letters are among those things that would probably mean very little to anyone else and yet they are priceless to me.
I can hold a piece of paper they once held. I can see their handwriting. The familiar curves of the letters, the way they formed their words, even the places where the pen pressed s little harder against the paper. And I look at those letters often.
My grandmothers are no longer sitting down to write me another one, but the words they took the time to put on paper are still here and bridge the gap of time.
I have letters from my mother too. Thankfully, she is still here to write them.
My mother is one of those people who still sends cards through the mail. Growing up, encouragement did not always arrive in an envelope. Sometimes she would leave handwritten notes where we would find them. Just a few words. A reminder. A bit of encouragement. Something that let us know we were loved and that she was thinking of us.
I don’t know that I realized at the time how much that simple practice would stay with me. Years later, I found myself doing the same thing with my own children. This became a tradition I didn’t know I was carrying.
When my boys went off to school, I would leave encouraging notes for them. I continued doing it as they grew older, all the way through college years. The words changed as they grew, of course. But the reason for writing them didn’t. In full transparency, texting has become easier when sending a little encouragement, a scripture, and a reminder. But I always go back to the written word on paper. There is just something so personal about it.
Sometimes you simply want the people you love to carry a few words with them when you cannot go along.
I’m proud of you. I’m praying for you. You’ve got this. I love you.
There is something about seeing those words in the handwriting of someone you love that makes them different.
I realize now that when I was leaving those notes for my children, I was carrying on something my mother had done for me. Maybe she was carrying something forward too.
That is how so many family traditions survive. They aren’t formally announced or carefully planned. We simply find ourselves doing the things that once made us feel loved.
There is something wonderful about opening the mailbox and finding something unexpected among the bills and advertisements. Your name written by hand. A return address you recognize. A real stamp in the corner. Before you even open the envelope, there is a feeling of being remembered. Someone thought about you when you weren’t in the room. Someone had a memory of you that you haven’t seen in years.
They chose a card or pulled out stationery or just took the time to sit and consider you. They found your address. They wrote down words just for you. They sealed the envelope, put a stamp on it, and made sure it found its way to you.
It is such a simple thing. But maybe that is exactly why it means so much.
We live in a world where almost everything is designed to be faster. Faster communication. Faster delivery. Faster answers. And our communication can begin to feel that way too. Quick, convenient, and sometimes almost forgettable. We read a text and answer it. Another arrives. Then another. Before long, yesterday’s words are buried beneath hundreds of others.
But a letter can be tucked into a drawer. A card can be placed in a Bible. A note can be slipped into a keepsake box.
Years later, someone can unfold it and hear a familiar voice again. I know this because I have kept so many of them throughout my own life. Letters. Cards. Little notes. Words someone once took the time to write to me. At the moment they were written, I doubt the person holding the pen thought they were creating anything lasting. But they were.
I don’t think we need to give up our phones or stop sending text messages. I certainly won’t. There is a place for quick communication. But I believe there should also be a place for the handwritten letter or note.
A birthday card with more than just a signature. A note tucked into a husband’s briefcase. A note in a child’s lunchbox. A letter to your adult child. A thank note written after someone welcomed us into their home. A card sent to someone who is grieving. A few lines mailed simply because a friend crossed our mind.
It doesn’t have to be beautifully written. The stationary does not have to match or be stationary at all. Our handwriting doesn’t need to look like calligraphy. It simply needs to be sincere. Your words. Poured out.
Correspondence was never really about the paper. It was about connections.
It was about taking something that lived inside of us and giving it to another person in a form they could hold in their hands. Gratitude, encouragement, remembrance, affection, wisdom, faith, understanding.
When I look at the letters from my grandmothers, the cards from my mother and the notes I have saved throughout my lifetime, I realize something.
Words written by hand have a way of becoming a part of our story.
My grandmothers wrote to me. My mother wrote to me and left encouraging notes for me to find. Then, without really thinking about it as tradition, I began writing notes to my own children. That feels so important to me now.
Someday the things we leave behind may not be the things we thought would matter most. Somewhere, tucked inside an old Bible, a desk drawer or a box in the back of a closet will be a letter we once wrote. Someone we loved will unfold it. They will recognize the handwriting. They will read our words. And, just for a moment, they may feel as though we are right there sitting beside them again.
This is exactly where the lost art of correspondence is worth finding again.
Not because everything from the past is better. But because some things are worth doing slowly, worth preserving, worth the intention, worth putting on paper. And there are people in our lives that are worth reminding, in our own handwriting, that they are deeply loved. Deeply cared for.
Maybe there is someone who just came to mind for you. I encourage you to take a moment, a piece of paper, breathe in the quiet, and allow the pen to pour out your thoughts, bleeding before you.