You've Got Mail

"To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart." ~ Phyllis Theroux


"Here's the mail." Joe places two magazines, one flyer, the local newspaper, a bill, and two envelopes on the kitchen table. "You've got two letters."
"For me?" I eagerly flip through the mail to find two hand-written envelopes addressed to me. Hand-written. And it's not even Christmas-time. Not quite.

Sweet memories of my grandmother wash over me as I look at those envelopes. Grandma adored holidays and birthdays. For every celebration the mailman delivered a card. From an early age, I learned to recognize Grandma's handwriting and I looked forward to her cards like no others. She always selected the most precious cards, cards that I knew were picked out just for me. When I opened one of Grandma's cards, I felt like the most beloved granddaughter in the whole wide world.

I eagerly slice open the first hand-written envelope. Inside is a cheery Thanksgiving card from my friend JoLyn. JoLyn is a grade school teacher and where she finds the time to send cards is beyond me. Yet she never forgets a holiday and she never forgets me. The second card is a from my writer friend, Jennie. We met at a writers' workshop and discovered a similar love of baseball. Not only has she written a letter, she's enclosed a column she wrote about baseball and a pair of baseball socks!

I spend the rest of the morning surrounded by a glow of friendship and memories. I feel special. Loved. The way I felt when I opened one of Grandma's cards.

Joe comes in for lunch, ready to feast on my spicy homemade chili and cornbread. He's been outside, working on his tractor, trying to breathe life into the old contraption. Getting it ready for another snowy season. In about an hour, he'll leave for work. He's on afternoon shift this week. He'll tell you that afternoons are his favorite shift, that he can get lots of chores done around the house before he goes to work. In our hundred-year-old farmhouse, there are always plenty of tasks to complete. But to my eyes, he looks tired. Like he might need some cheering up.

I dash upstairs to my desk. I've got note cards stashed away somewhere. I find cards with pictures of puppies and kittens. Flowers. Pretty birds. Gilt-edged scenery.
Please God, help me find the right card. Something special just for Joe.
Best Wishes! Congratulations! Happy Birthday! Nothing that says what's in my heart.
Finally I find a simple card, a farm scene with an old tractor in the foreground and a red barn in the background. And plenty of empty space inside the card to write my own message:

To my guy who takes good care of the tractor and our house and everything else. Who takes the best care of me. I love you.

When I pack his lunch for work, the hand-written envelope perches right on top of his sandwich. Where he'll find it first. I smile, picturing his smile when he reads how special he is to me.

Thank you, God, for good friends and hand-written cards that show they care. And thank you most of all for my Joe who takes such good care of us. Amen.

The Scrambled Egg Solution

"Green Eggs and Ham was the story of my life. I wouldn't eat a thing when I was a kid, but Dr. Seuss inspired me to eat cauliflower." Jim Carrey

When I was a kid, scrambled eggs were all I wanted to eat. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. Mom's attempts to seduce me with brown sugar and maple syrup-topped oatmeal failed. My once-favorite grilled cheese sandwich was pushed away. Even my dad's promise of a bowl of ice cream after supper was met with derision. I was in a rut. A scrambled egg rut.

Do you ever feel like you're in a rut? Same old same old day after day? Especially when Joe is on afternoon shift, I find that I fall into a bad routine. I hit the snooze button one too many times. I stay up way too late, engrossed with reality TV and re-runs. And I end my day frustrated with the little I've accomplished. My good resolutions become so easy to put aside: get out of bed early, start my day with a devotion, put in that extra half-hour of exercise, read something meaningful. The days seem to get away from me.

One day, when I was little, Mom slid another plate of scrambled eggs in front of me.
"What are these?" I stabbed a piece of green vegetation with my fork and held it up suspiciously.
"Peppers. Peppers are tasty with eggs. Try it."
Hey, Mom was right! The eggs tasted even better with that extra little zing.The next day, Mom added cheese and a bright, orange, crunchy substance to my usual plate of eggs.
"Mom?" I pointed at my plate.
"Grated carrots. Try it."
At supper, my scrambled eggs were accompanied by a summery-red, juicy, sliced tomato. A few days later, I finished an entire bowl of vegetable soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. No scrambled eggs in sight. I had crawled out of my scrambled egg rut.

Mom's gentle solution was to add crunchy, vibrant vegetables to my bland scrambled eggs, one meal at a time. Today, instead of being frustrated and trying to accomplish everything at once, I might try to add one lively activity to my usual bland week of afternoon shift. For that extra half-hour of exercise, I can take Ben the beagle for a walk and enjoy the last golden days of fall. I can visit the library and check out some of my favorite old books or that new bestseller I've anxiously awaited. Perhaps, I'll curl up with the book tonight instead of reality TV and re-runs. I might even take the book upstairs with me, read an extra chapter, then shut off the light and fall sleep at a decent hour. I bet I'll wake up earlier tomorrow with a much better attitude, ready to rise from that rut and begin a bright new day.

Dear Father, please bless my efforts today as I climb out of my rut. Help me to always appreciate the roof over my head, the job that keeps us and the food on my table. Even scrambled eggs. Amen.