In the little town of Lisbon I grew up in, there was a cemetery.
 
I used to spend quite a bit of time in that cemetery. We used to play there as kids, games like hide and seek or flashlight tag. There were some great hills for sled riding. When they had a tree that needed removed, they would call my grandfather and he and I would go over in the truck and cut it up for firewood. As a teenager, I had a job there mowing the grass and “other” assorted tasks.
 
Like the cemeteries here, there was an old section, a pauper section, and then a large area that normal folks could buy plots in. I had a whole bunch of relatives in there, including my Uncle Tom. He was my dad’s brother who died at about 30 of a heart attack (he smoked a lot, so surely that didn’t help.)
 
My uncle also lived in a house that bordered the cemetery. When he died, his wife bought a plot right behind the house. I think it was so close you could read the marker while looking out the back kitchen window. That’s because across the stone in large, cursive letters was the name Crihfield. My uncle was a math teacher, by the way. When they made up his stone they lifted his signature off of something and replicated it in granite. His writing wasn’t just legible, it was flawless.
 
I think about that every time a birthday comes around in our house – Dave’s was just two weeks ago. That’s because my mom sends us birthday cards, with birthday checks inside. (Even that old Randy gets one, still!) And yes, like my uncle, (and like my father) my mom’s cursive writing is perfect, ridiculously well formed. I asked my mom how that happened to be and she told me when she went to college, back in the dark ages, ALL teacher wanna be’s were required to take and pass handwriting classes. Supposedly to be a good example to the kids and all that.
 
There’s just something about handwriting. Once in a while I write – er I mean print, a letter to someone. Often I’ve gotten them from many of you, too. Thank you letters, sympathy cards, even the occasional chatty note. I love them! I used to write things day and night, in journals, as stories, poems, all sorts of things. Now a days when I write my hand cramps up in 2 minutes because I am so out of practice. But what an impact they can make!
 
Form letters, I throw away. Printed stuff, whoop-de-doo.  It’s just not personal. Even when I do write something, if I photocopy it that somehow cheapens it. I mean, what’s more valuable – a reproduction of a letter from Abraham Lincoln or having a sheet of paper that he touched, that he toiled over for a moment, that he’s left a bit of himself on? Maybe an ink smudge of a fingerprint. The impact is almost reverent.
 
And so it’s with great interest I read the several places in scripture where Paul points out that he’s written a letter to a church with his own hand. I wonder if the reason none of the original writings are around today is because everyone wanted to touch and to see the letters that Paul had written – not copies but the authentic script! I suspect if Paul were here he’d tell us he’s glad none of those papers have survived. After all, it really wasn’t his handwriting that was perfect or he wanted us to take note of – it was the message!
 Randy