I don’t mind laughing at myself and my humanness, but sometimes my humanness is more irritating than funny. This morning, it frightened me. INGRID KOSS The love letter I am still amazed as I remember that Sunday morning. I was sitting in a church service and should have been concentrating on what was happening, but somehow my mind had gone astray. I was trying to remember the name of the pianist. I knew her well enough. I had spoken to her often. “What about her husband’s name, then?” I thought distractedly. “Or her last name?” Anything to trigger my memory. It was not at all important that I know her name at that moment. What disturbed me so much was that this was just one more on a growing list of things I couldn’t remember. What was happening to my mind? Increasingly, I was forgetting things. I found myself making jokes about my age and memory loss. I don’t mind laughing at myself and my humanness, but sometimes my humanness is more irritating than funny. This morning, it frightened me. Words like brain tumour and Alzheimer’s were weighing heavily on my mind. “Why don’t I have trouble remembering those words?” I thought irritably. Unaware of the service going on around me, I continued to worry. “What if I do have a terrible disease? How would that impact my life? My family? My friendships?” I considered the possibilities. “What if I die? What if I live? Will I slowly lose touch with all the people I love? Will I eventually become an embarrassment? What about all the precious moments of life still ahead?” I thought of not being there when our children got married. Or when they had children of their own. I thought of the precious, little, unborn grandchildren. “Could it be that I’ll never know them, never hold them in my arms?” On the outside, I was sitting quietly in church. On the inside, painful thoughts were having their way with me. “What if no one tells my grandchildren about me? How will they know how much I love them? How will they know that I loved them long before they were even conceived?” I needed to find a way to tell them. It was vitally important that they know! “I’ll write a letter. Yes, a long letter,” I thought, excited now. “I’ll tell them how much I love them. I’ll tell them all about myself, who I am and the things I did. And I’ll give them advice. They’ll want to know it all!” I had a plan, and it was a good one. The letter would say all the things I’d never be able to say in person. The letter would contain my heart. Then I thought of a new problem. “But how will they get the letter?” I fretted. “Who will understand the importance of the letter? Who will love me enough to care after I’m gone? Who will be there at the right time?” I considered the options: “Too forgetful.” “Too old.” “Too irresponsible.” “Not enough compassion.” I was becoming distraught again. Desperate, I prayed, so caught up in my private melodrama that I was believing it to be true. “God, whom can I trust with the letter? It’s so important that they know! But who will tell them?” Immediately, I was shocked by my own words, struck by their meaning in a far greater context. If I could care so much in my imaginary situation, how much more does God care for the reality of His creation? My desperate plea had echoed the heart cry of God. For God loved the world so much that He poured His heart into exactly such a letter – the Bible – written so all His children could know. I don’t remember what church was about that Sunday. But I do know that I experienced in a passionate way the love that God the Father has for His children – not just the children who already know Him through the Bible, but also the ones who don’t know Him yet. His heart of love cries out to us all. Ingrid Koss is a freelance writer from Winnipeg, Man.

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