Last month while I was in California, my sister gave me a file folder stuffed full mostly of letters from the past 45 or more years.  It was my mother’s “Bill” folder – my sister has been the guardian of such things since my mother’s death two years ago.  It was a heavy-duty folder recycled from my father’s business. The last additions to the collection are mostly printed emails, but the early items are almost all hand written. They are my letters home. Or at least some of my letters home.  I am not sure of the criteria by which some letters were saved and others not. I suspect there were no criteria.  This letter was save and that one was not.

The oldest letter in the lot was written a week into the first quarter of my freshman year in college. It is among a couple dozen written during those four undergrad years.

I intend no lament over technology having usurped the place of paper and pen or a diatribe against the superficiality of social media posts.  I am thankful for the technology and acknowledge my fair share of superficial posts. But what a treasure trove those old binder-paper dispatches from over the years.

The seemingly random lot of letters are far better than any stash of yellowed photos might be in reminding me of the way things were; in fact of correcting and clarifying a false memory or two.

The college correspondence, especially, reminds me first of family.  Dry humor, or attempts at it, marks most of the letters. It is safe humor, the kind you can use when you trust those receiving it and know their love for you. Many of those early 1970s missives describe the beauty of the university campus at the edge of the redwood forest overlooking California’s Monterey Bay.  I think I had my mom in mind when I added those details. I often included little asides to my younger brothers still at home.  I missed them.

One of the most remarkable letters is a letter in response to a rare letter received from my father. I have no copy of Dad’s letter to me, and I had forgotten all about it, but I know the context without having to pause for even a moment.  It was that “F” in French from the winter term of my freshman year.  I have come to think – years later – of that lousy grade as a kind of grace. Never before or since even a C, the F in French is a reminder of who I am and my need for grace.

My father had not been gracious in his response to the letter home confessing the F.  I don’t remember my 18-year old self answering Dad, but I did. 500 miles away from home undoubtedly made it easier, but I did not cower as I always did.  I was firm and confident and full of faith.  In a few more words than this, I said, “Dad, I got an F, but I am not a failure.”  Where did that come from?

Oh, I know exactly where that came from.

The college correspondence chronicles one of the most important and amazing seasons in my life. It tells of being invited to church by a dorm mate and then to a college fellowship group. It reflects the joy and hope of coming to understand faith in Christ and his incredible word.  The letters begin to share the names, fellow students and some of the wonderful older members of that good church, that First Presbyterian Church, down the hill from the campus at the edge of the redwood forest.

I’d be the hypocrite to lament technology’s hostility to pen and paper.  This is an electronic post, after all.  But I am so thankful that my mother saved the binder-paper letters she happened to save.  And, yes, I am thankful for the picture of family and faith they paint.