Handwritten Letters
April 10th, 2008
C.S. Lewis’s full name was Clive Staples Lewis (1898-1963). I did not know this.
Currently I sit in an overstuffed chair by the fire at The Mother Ship (Barnes&Noble) in Fairbanks scribbling these random thoughts on a piece of graphing paper I ripped from Bren’s still unpaid for math notebook. After reading fifty pages in my current read Belong To Me, I paused for a stretch and made my way to the restroom at the back of the store. On my way back to my seat I swung by the theology section to see if Piper, MacArthur, Sproul, Packer, Willard, or Strobel had anything new published since I’d last checked. With negative results, I turned to walk away when Yours, Jack, by C.S. Lewis caught my eye. Beautiful dust jacket.
C.S. Lewis spent a good portion of each day coresponding with people via hand-written letters. Over his lifetime he wrote thousands of letters in which he offered his friends and acquaintences advice on the Christian life, giving away a bit of himself to each of these correspondents as he signed his notes with a hearfelt and familiar, “yours, Jack.” Most of these letters are currently only available in their entirety—a collection consisting of three hefty tomes. Yours, Jack features the best inspirational reading and sage counsel culled from C.S. Lewis’s letters, offering an accessible look at this great author’s personal vision for the spiritual life.”
During my seasons of melancholy there are only a few things that bring me any kind of joy or satisfaction. The main thing, and the most obvious , are books. If I can’t run away physically, I’m sure gonna try to mentally, and books take me where I want to go. The second thing is deep communication with my family; those who know me best and are willing to listen to me ramble and babble, rant and rave. They know I’m not only venting, but laying it all out to help me better see the inner chaos more clearly. They don’t dismiss my confusion and discontentment as self-indulgent pity—or if they do, they’re kind enough to not say so.
During the worst years of my life, letters of love and encouragement from mom and dad became my life’s blood. There’s something about a handwritten letter—when you read one you can’t help but think that someone sat with a blank page in front of them, pen in hand, and thought about what they wanted to say to you—then actually took the time to physically write it out. How can that not make someone feel special? I love letters. Just like the sound of our voices, our handwriting is distinctly us. For as long as I live I will always remember my parent’s handwriting. And my grandma’s, and my sister’s and brother’s.
I’m sad that I don’t give that kind of time and attention to the people I love and care for the most. A handwritten letter really is a small offering.
I did buy Yours, Jack and am going to read it slowly, savoring the thoughts and wisdom of the Christians I will meet in the pages.
April 10th, 2008 at 4:39 pm
I’m going to look for this book myself. I love CS Lewis and I’ve never heard of this book. It sounds great!
April 10th, 2008 at 7:03 pm
Letter writing really has become a “lost art”, I fear. I cherish all the letters I still have, that were written by Grandparents, Aunts, etc… Sad to say, I’ve gotten out of the habit of writing letters and I wish I hadn’t.
April 11th, 2008 at 12:42 am
Mary Ann, I know you’ll love it as much I do :)
Zack, I wish I hadn’t either. Who knows—maybe I’ll take it back up again…
June 7th, 2008 at 3:36 pm
I loved reading this post. We have lost so much of the simple beauty in life…like handwritten notes. There is something so romantic in movies when a woman sits down at her writing desk in front of a window with a garden view, her fountain pen poised to write. It’s a beautiful thing in life…and we keep losing them to mostly meaningless busyness. Gosh, I wish we could all slow down.
October 28th, 2008 at 1:43 pm
Thanks for writing this.