Dear Ashley,

A couple of weeks ago, a close friend and I were talking over our holiday plans. Slowly, she began to cry, then uncontrollably sob. I held her. She covered her eyes with her hand as I did. After a few moments, she lifted her head, composed herself, apologized quickly, then resumed the conversation. For a moment, I kept my hand on her shoulder, as if to steady her, although she stood quite firmly. While we talked some more, my mind kept returning to the hot, wet spot she’d left in the middle of my chest. I understood; the one year anniversary of her father’s passing grew near.

“Do you think this letter will help her?” my friend asked me this morning. I told her I planned to write you. “I hope so,” I thought; “couldn’t hurt,” I said. She gave me some great advice. She said, were she you, she would want to punch anyone in the face who tried to console her or said they understood how she felt. I won’t pretend to understand how you feel — I don’t. I’m sure, if it happened to me, I wouldn’t understand how I felt, either. I can’t even do for you what I did for my friend who needed to cry, which wasn’t much anyway. A letter is even less.

Prayers and letters are “equal signs”; they say, you and I are equal.

I suspect you may not have the heart to read any of these letters. Nor will I defend them or argue their great value. I will say this, though. In church, we pray for far-flung places and crises, and I think, what good does this do? But it’s better to do that than nothing at all. We pray and we write because it connects us. Prayers and letters are “equal signs”; they say, you and I are equal. Your pain is mine — everyone’s, really. So if I can help you in any way, and you’ll allow it, I will. For now, I send you this letter and a prayer.

Sincerely,

David