Previous 

A letter-writing man

Arthur G. White

My father was a Christmas letter writer. With pen and ink, he wrote each letter in longhand, a-page-and-a-half for most (and more for some), inscribed on linen paper torn from a pad and signed, “Bill and Mina”. In the early days of December, he wrote letter after letter to family, friends, co-workers and associates, some of whom I knew (like my brother Bill overseas), but mostly to people whom he knew – people whom he had met years before or only recently who meant something to him; people not really separated from him by time or distance because he kept in touch through these annual greetings and other letters sent throughout the year.

My father was a letter-writing man. No long distance chats for him. No, his was a measured message, a pre-thought collection of personal reflections and endearments.

I can still see the wire he strung across the living and dining rooms of my childhood home, upon which were hung cards of all descriptions, from every continent, a hundred or more. People from all over the world were here with us for the holidays, part of our gathered family, thanks to these seasonal symbols. There was the braille card from the blind man who worked in my father’s office; the white-on-white engraving from Dr. Erdman; a card in German from that chain-smoking chemist who twice spent Thanksgiving with our family; and the familiar pale blue V-mailer from England. Words of greeting; words of remembering; words of concern and affection; thoughtful, affirming, well-wishing words. Our large family, happy as we were, was nevertheless elevated during the Advent season by this grand collective human endeavour. In fact, when all is said and done, it wasn’t just a human endeavour we were involved in. It was also a holy endeavour – the “Word among us”, as John put it.

Maybe that’s why I, too, am a letter-writing man, wishing to remain in touch with those who give me a greater dimension and significance than I can come up with on my own. This past year, I sent out a hundred or more measured messages of personal reflection and endearments to my family and friends. Now this outreaching is coming back in a swell of daily deliveries. We will hear from Ernie Bigelow in Ohio, whose last three Christmas letters told of hopes raised, hopes dashed and hopes regained in the thousand last days of his 40 years with Ellen (who in March lost her battle to lymphoma). We will hear from dear friends in Michigan for whom this year will be their 19th Christmas since paraplegia entombed their beautiful, vivacious 39-year-old daughter. How sweet her fortune – amid all the despair – to be surrounded by such tenacious and tender loving. We will hear from John and Joanne in San Francisco, whose son Eric’s story also took three seasons to tell, from being clinically dead by electrocution, through heroic interventions, faith-driven restoration and pattern repetitions, to an Easter-like complete recovery.

Each card and contact at Christmas carries its own good news and goodness, even when the news is the worst. Yes I would, if I could, feed the hungry, house the homeless, parent the orphaned, protect the powerless and beat swords into plough points, but if our world became an Eden, I would still wish others to know the “shared touch” of such kinship. Like my father, I have become a letter-writing man – and it is good!

Arthur G. White lives in Clementsvale, N.S.

Previous 

Last modified December 11, 2000.

© 2000 Mennonite Brethren Herald.
Published by the Canadian Conference of MB Churches.
Masthead and usage information.