If you were to stand at my house front, knock your gathered palm on the wood of my door, I’d welcome you in and lead you up the stairs littered with toys. I’d take you to the closet in my boys’ room, point upwards, and show you the wooden chest laid high on that top shelf, collecting layers of dust and who knows what else.

“There it is,” I’d say. “All my journals and all my letters.”

Then I’d point out the other boxes and bins, all stuffed with more letters from my youth until now. I’d walk you down the stairs to the room where my desk sits, and I’d open up drawers — the ones with postcards and envelopes shoved inside. I’d tell you to look at the wall in front of my desk to see the clippings of cards and the notes I’ve pinned up.

• One, from a friend who became family, reads: Dear Sissy, I miss you so dearly. Thank you so much for always sending a note…
• And another, from a childhood friend: We’re excited to have moved to a town that we hope to call home for a long time…
• And another, from my high school chorus teacher: Hello my wonderful friend, all is well up here…
• And another, from a fellow author and friend: Sweet Rachel, you have inspired me! I can’t wait for your book #2 ♥…
• Then, a note from my son, simply scribbled: To Mom…

After all this — showing you my stacks of cards and letters — I’d sit you down and tell you why I keep these words within my reach. Pinned on walls. Put up on the fridge. Stored in boxes and bins, saved from weeks and years ago and kept safe, forever in my heart.

As a child, I moved a few times. And, with that, I’d grown accustomed to missing people. I moved around the fifth grade and missed out on starting middle school with my best friends. Then I moved again at the end of middle school, leaving new friends and losing my place on the softball and tennis teams. I sought so desperately to cling to the ones I loved — writing letters was a way to hold the line of connection.

I wrote letters because I didn’t want to let go of the ones I loved. I wrote letters to say (and hopefully receive and read) all the things I needed to say and hear . . . a way to remind myself of all things beautiful and enduring and true.

And so, here I am — here you are. We are standing at the precipice of yet another new year. And, already it is a melting pot of anticipation and pain. Already, it is an achingly beautiful tapestry of hardship and hope. Already, it is ripe with opportunity and adversity.

I know this because this is how all years go. Every year is a pull and tug of beauty and brokenness, a marathon of highs and lows, a landscape of valleys and mountaintops.

Who knows what the year will bring? Children who come back home. Healing from diseases. Mending of marriages. Or, perhaps, our pain from the past will carry over? The limp that lingers. The jaded job search that continues. The ache that remains from a friendship fallen out.

For all that we carry and all that we’ve yet to come across, sometimes we need more than just one word for the year — we need a whole letter… a whole book, a whole Bible full of promises to help us preserve and get through the year ahead.

So, instead of simply inviting you into my house and showing you the letters I’ve saved, here is one of your own. This inspired letter, creatively written by me and infused by the Word of God, is for you — written as if from God’s heart to your own.

As you look out upon the start of another new year, may this letter remind you of all that is beautiful and enduring and true.

Dear Daughter,

I see you. (Psalm 33:13-15)
I see you as you were, as you are, and as you will be. (Psalm 139:1-10)
Look to Me; turn to Me. I am Your help.
I am the Maker of the heavens and the earth, and I am the Maker of all your moments.
Look to Me, for I am the only One, in all the heavens and the earth, that can hold you and help you. (Psalm 121:1-2)
I hear you, daughter. I hear you when you pray and I hear you when you are in pain. (1 John 5:14, Psalm 118:5-6)
Do not look to yourself for answers, rather look to what you know is true of Me. (Proverbs 3:5-6)
Trust in Me. (Psalm 25:1-2)
Delight yourself in Me. (Psalm 37:4)
Look to Me, and Me alone, for divine direction. (Psalm 37:5)
I am He who leads you. (Psalm 32:8)
I am He who loves you. (Psalm 36:7)
My love is never far away.

Experience healing and hope through prose and poems that give space and grace for grief with Rachel’s new book, The Matter of Little Losses.

 

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