Last year for Mother’s Day, my darling kiddo made a gift for me in their class at school. They made a “jar of love”. Inside this little plastic jar are notes full of love and care from my child. I adore and treasure this little gift, in part because it reminds me of the notes that my own mother would give me as a kid and teenager. She would write them on calenders, in devotionals, on lunch notes, and daily prayer cards so I could always have them with me. Always have a reminder that she loves me deeply and dearly.

A few mornings ago, the little jar on my desk caught my eye, and I reached for it. I could use some love this morning, I felt. So I reached in and drew out one of the lovingly written-on scraps of paper and smiled as I opened it. It was doing its work even before I read it. I love this jar; I love the written evidence of love.

My husband endeavors to find meaningful, beautiful cards for me on special days or occasions. I love him for his effort in agonizing over “just the right one”.

My heart flutters excitedly when I get letters in the mail because I love seeing people’s souls in their handwriting.

Writing takes effort and effort translates into love for me. Even signing your own name with a pen these days takes extra effort in this digital society. I don’t care what your handwriting looks like (I teach grade school, don’t forget). The fact that you sat down and put pen to paper for me means more than can adequately express. It’s your mind and soul living on paper. Shimmering in glittery gel ink, swirling dramatically in chromatic fountain pigments, or calmly sitting in rounded ballpoint — your words live there, you are there, speaking to me from the page.

This little jar holds joy beyond compare for me, not only in the loving notes it holds but in the reminder of so many other notes, letters, and cards that have preceded them. Writings that have made my life full and memorable and made me feel remembered, seen, and loved.