Perspective

The letter came by US Mail. Unlike the ordinary methods of communication I utilize daily like email, text messaging and instant messaging, this letter was hand delivered to the physical mailbox that sits on my manicured lawn in front of my house. As I walked across the lawn to the mailbox I thought about my husband. If he could have witnessed me actually checking the mail in this manner, this deliberate act of cutting across the lawn instead of using the sidewalk, there would have been a discussion about how I was smashing the grass or stunting its potential spring growth. I say “discussion” as if the conversation could have the ability to be two sided but in reality the discussion would consist of him asking “do you have to walk across the lawn?” and me ineffectively rolling my eyes to add drama to the situation…because that’s what I do. But, hubby wasn’t around to see the cataclysmic tragedy of my cute little feet dancing across the lawn sooooo…cut across I did like the rebel that I am!

Upon opening the mailbox I immediately notice the junk mail that we are still receiving despite paying for a junk mail removal system. After wading through the advertisements and the bills, I come to a letter, hand addressed to me. I recognize the return address and with a smile on my face, I throw all the other mail back in the mailbox and skip back across the lawn to my front door, enter the house and plop down in my office chair excited to read a hand written letter.

By the time I have read this letter, I am aware as I usually am, that I am probably not the first or the only one to have read it. I can’t be sure of this, but I always assume that the letters written by prison inmates are read by someone before they are allowed to seal the envelope.

You are probably wondering if I get a lot of mail from prison, if I am one of those women who have low self esteem and find it gratifying to have men with tarnished backgrounds sending me letters asking me for photos of myself. Well I’m not one of those women so keep reading.

I’ll admit that I do have a friend on the “inside.” He has been there for a few years and could quite possibly be there for many more depending on his appeal process. He was my friend prior to going to prison so if you could please resist the temptation to picture me standing outside the prison clinging desperately to the electronic chain link fence pining over a convict who wants a prison marriage ceremony, I would really appreciate it. And now that we have cleared that up…lets move on.

The letter starts in the usual way, catching me up on his daily routine and the only two things he is allowed to do all week that is enjoyable (pray and play music). He fills me in on who has written and who he’d like to hear from because writing letters is a way to not only help him keep his sanity, but it helps pass the “time.” He thoughtfully asks questions about my family and remarks on my last correspondence to him. That’s usually the bulk of our letters…when you sit in a little room for most of your day, you don’t create much to talk about. This is understandable, so I try to keep him entertained with my writing (sad as it may be) and life on the “outside.”

But today as I sit thinking about my reply to him, I can’t help but think of something he said to me in his letter last week and more importantly, the things he has not said to me in all of his letters over the years. What he said was this - “all in all, I can’t complain.” In my head I am thinking “REALLY???...You sit, eat, sleep, and poop in a tiny room 24/7, writing with God knows what since they probably don’t let you have a pen for fear that you pen yourself or someone else to death, knowing that you have been convicted of a crime that you are innocent of and you really can’t complain?” But he doesn’t complain. Instead he uses his time to build his friendships and his relationship with God and sends letter after letter without one complaint. He's gracious and thoughtful and punctual with his writing. And although he is human afterall and nobody would fault him for moaning a bit, he chooses not to.

And so as I sat at my computer today, grumbling about the fact that I am having some computer issues and bellyaching about what to cook for dinner; I stop for a moment to allow some perspective to pass through my thoughts. I pause to appreciate that I have a computer (or three) and a dinner that I will not be serving up on some sort of safety tray with dull, non-threatening utensils. My life, with all its flaws, I wouldn’t give up for anything.