Reminiscences of an “Old” InBox
“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose…“
Paper – pieces, cards, pamphlets – many in envelopes – many in full color. All read, some more carefully than others. Some shared – others not. Some hurried to other offices – some the cause of long quiet study. All attributable, one way or another – even the most saddest or most hurtful – as even the unacknowledged may be surmised by the wise.
There was a day before the technological whirlwind descended – when I was useful, essential, respected, and needed. My responsibility was great, as people used me more than any other way to communicate with this special place – The Church. Here to share with ones Maker thanksgivings and celebrations, ask for attention to both the sacred and the utilitarian – the unique and the mundane of life.
My place was in the center of the office.
People came to me. Conversations started and ended in my hearing. Sometimes my contents were profound – remembering loved ones now missed and gone on ahead, to help plan the details of their memorials, and help create that unique way to remember them, who they were, and what they stood for.
Some addresses were from banks, with security envelopes, holding the generosity of others and the fruits of their lives and labors offered in service for the betterment of our world. Many of these were seen as part of an obligation, a recognition to God for life’s journey – a few in the pure spirit of giving alone, allowing the unexpected or long needed – or near miraculous to take place.
My small walls also held a myriad of invitations, holding with reverence those special cards inviting the pastor to events of life’s greatest joys, into the warmth and hospitality of others, a summons to share big moments in the fellowship of God’s community. These often elicited joy and laughter and excited talk when opened – oh – how I wondered from where they came and longed to play a greater part!
I moved into a corner.
Many still came – those special greetings on special days – of Birthday wishes, of holidays acknowledged and shared, many covered with beautiful works of art to inspire and remind us of the Wonder of Christmas, the glory of Easter, the joy of baptisms and confirmations and graduations and the passage of life’s anniversaries.
Mine was a legal place of great responsibility, where official notices embossed with seals and important sounding return addresses were received. Here communications with ecclesiastical, government and civil authorities were carefully deposited awaiting action – from the mundane receipt of a water bill – to the ordination of a priest – to the inauguration of a mayor.
Sometimes I even played the part of “God’s Box” for a lost soul, that agonized reaching out, a rant of despair begging for help – and needing a place to hold emotions about life, death, love, good, evil, politics, and relationships that knew no other place to turn. I was a “Designated Destination” for those who wished to say something to God – as the “North Pole” is for children reaching out to Santa. Only instead of Christmas wish lists, my messages could include newspaper clippings of doom, pasted montages of despair or threat of violence – some attributed to cults and evils designed to frighten God’s children. I shudder at their recall…
My home is now an almost forgotten shelf.
Yet the varied content reflecting life never changed. I often wondered what the reader of my box thought – moving from pious to the profane – from the advertising and offers of needless merchandise – to a water-use report change due to a dripping faucet – to appreciation for responding to a bedside vigil with a widow afraid to die. How often I would hear the remark: “The best things come in the mail” – only to have it countered a day later with “The worst things come in the mail.”
Over the years my content grew thinner – yet was always the same. I still received the “big news”. The names of my readers would change – as did the brass plate on the office door beyond – and more and more of the communication I could not hold were sent “electronically”, without the hand delivery from a person with a pleasant smile, the crisp feel of paper and the sound it made when opened. Less and less I saw the reaction of my contents to the world I brought.
But I do remember – and celebrate my role as a safe and sacred holder for all sorts of communications – some brought joy, some brought hope, some reunited friends. I witnessed life, of a sort, from my forgotten shelf. Time passed.Readers came and went. Then there was the letter I remember most – it brought tears, a long silence, a flurry of seeming random activity. Once again a different name appeared at the top of the contents I found inside – and a new plaque was put beside the familiar door.
Finis
Lamoureaux, 2019
Acknowledging
The “Eddies and Currents of Time” (ST:TOS)
that draws near those destined in life to together…
2018