There have been some impediments to mail getting through. It can be frustrating to put the right postage, carefully copy the correct address, and still find out that your missive is in limbo weeks later. Our church mailed care packages to college students for Valentine's Day, and while my daughter Hope excitedly opened hers a few days later, Aurelle waited nearly a month.
The cookies were still sweet.
I watched a movie last weekend in which a father wrote to his estranged son, and while the letters arrived, his child was angry and tossed them. Which is even sadder.
Even without the vehicle of paper, we send messages to one another frequently. Once I was heavy with sadness, and poured it out to a pair of friends. The mishmash of emotions came in waves, with a force that startled me. One person teared up, holding my heart with compassion. I felt heard. But the other person caved to their own need to talk me out of it.
The case had merit, of course. There was a DA's list of reasons to not feel grief. Looking for the good is something I have touted myself.
Yet I felt invisible.
Over the next few days I pondered. My internal dialogue bounced from retribution, to self pity, to loneliness. Then I saw it. A letter to me.
Dear Lori,
This is what it feels like. When you choose to have opinions about someone else's experience, it doesn't help. Listening is kinder.
Love, God
A stream of internal comments slid past, of how I had dismissed other people's responses as overdone, or unreasonable. Even though those words were not spoken, it did damage. It was as if the message had taken awhile to reach me, or maybe I resisted opening it.
A Valentine appeared in front of me. And it was sweet.
