When I was a child,
too young to read and write,
my mother would set me down
with a sheet or two of writing paper,
and I would "write" a letter to my Gramma Ash
who lived far away in Florida.
I would fill each line on the paper
with scribbling,
and when I was done,
we would fold the letter
and put it in an envelope.
She would address it,
and I would lick and place the stamp.
In a week or so
I would receive a letter back from Gramma.
It would be addressed to Master Dirk DeVries
and would read something like this,
as read to me by my mother:
Dear Dirk,
How delightful to hear from you.
You know how much I enjoy your letters.
Yes, the weather has been lovely lately,
not nearly as hot as it can be.
My friend Marion and I
have enjoyed sitting and chatting
on her front porch.
And so kind of you to ask about my health;
I am doing quite well...
And so it would go.
I would love to know
what my three-to-five-year-old mind
thought of all this.
Did I, in fact, believe I was writing?
I think, perhaps, I did.
At that age, just getting a letter was a thrill,
but to hear back from Gram Ash--
that was love, and I felt it.
---
Which has gotten me thinking about prayer:
perhaps our prayers to God
come through as something like my lines of gibberish
to the vast and unknowable expanse that is God,
holder and sustainer of the universe.
But it wouldn't matter, would it?
God would nonetheless
be delighted with our attempts
and honor our intentions,
and respond, as Gram Ash did,
with kindness and love.
Dear God...
Text and image © 2024 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.