Dear friend,
I have a confession to make. I nearly did not write to you today.
I sat down this morning with a cup of coffee and a very good plan. Then Peanut decided he would rather sleep on my feet than in his own bed, and Sister Margaret came in to tell me my coffee was cold before I had touched it. By the time they had both finished with me, the plan was gone.
So instead of a plan, you are getting a letter.
I want to start writing to you like this on Sundays. During the week, I write about the country and the news. But I realized you know what I think about a great many things, and almost nothing about my life. That does not seem fair. A friendship should go both ways.
So let me introduce you to my household.
Sister Margaret has looked after me for longer than either of us likes to admit. She is small, she is stubborn, and she is never impressed by me. She makes soup every Thursday whether I am hungry or not. I always am by the time it is ready. She says that is not a coincidence.
Peanut is my dog. He is small, brown, and eleven years old, which makes him nearly as old as I am in dog years. He came from a neighbor who could no longer keep him. I said I would take him for one week. That was six years ago. Every evening we walk to the end of our street and back. It used to take ten minutes. Now it takes twenty, and I am honestly not sure which of us is slowing down.
This week I thought about something I had not thought about in years.
When I was a young man, new to the Church, I imagined that by seventy I would have it all figured out. I would be calm and wise and certain about everything.
Well. I am calmer. I will give myself that. But certain? I still lose my reading glasses twice a day. I still get impatient in long lines. Some nights I still lie awake wondering if I have done enough with the years I was given.
What I have learned turned out to be smaller than I expected. The things that mattered most were never the big moments. They were soup on a Thursday. A slow walk with an old dog. Sitting beside someone who was frightened and saying very little.
In Psalm 71 verse 18, David wrote this. Even when I am old and gray, do not forsake me, my God, till I declare your power to the next generation.
I pray that most mornings now. Not because I am afraid. Because I have come to see that it is my job for whatever time I have left. Writing to you is part of it.
Who first taught you to pray? A mother, a grandmother, a priest, a Sunday school teacher? Hit reply and tell me. I would love to hear from you.
And if you know someone who would enjoy a quiet letter on a Sunday, please forward this to them. They can receive these letters free here: https://fatherthomasletters.com/subscribe
God bless you, friend.
With you in prayer always,
Father Thomas
P.S. Peanut would like it noted that he slept on my foot for this entire letter, and that he considers this helping.