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The letters started arriving when I was freshman at East Carolina University, in the fall of 1978.
I received many during my college days, in crisp handwriting, on lined notebook paper or stationery, carefully folded and sent in envelopes adorned with 15-cent stamps.
I saved those letters, tucked them away in boxes.
Over time, I forgot they existed, what they said, what they meant.
The letters, now faded, were from my mother, Peggy Chandler, who passed away 19 months ago after a 19-year battle with Alzheimer's.
I found seven letters in a box about two years before her death, at age 69. By the time I found the letters, she was unable to speak. The disease had ravaged her brain and robbed us of her personality.
Just this week, while looking for photographs, I found 30 more letters in a big box in the attic.
Reading them, and writing this, brings grief I didn't know was still hidden inside me and joy that will last forever.
So much about Mom had dimmed in my memory.
But through those handwritten pages, I was reminded of her humor, of how much she liked to play bridge, of her integrity as a confidant who never shared even a thread of gossip, and of how appreciative she was of others.
Amazingly, I can hear her speaking to me again.
On this Mother's Day, that is a gift.
Encouraging words
As the oldest of three brothers, I was the first in our family to leave home for college. That was hard for my mother, and writing was her way to stay in touch.
She kept me posted about what was going on in our family, church and hometown of Roxboro, N.C., north of Durham.
She urged me to go to the doctor to get a sore throat examined, or to be on time for an appointment, or reminded me to pay my car insurance bills on time, or to attend church regularly.
She wrote a lot about cakes and pies. She knew I loved her homemade prune cake, carrot cake and cherry yum-yum.
But there were deeper messages, too.
She often wrote that she was proud of me, and though she wrote those words when I was in college, they still encourage me today.
She told me to do my best. She knew my passion was sports and working at the ECU student newspaper, and that academics too often took a backseat.
Once, after some family friends who lived in Kinston had given me a ride, she complimented me for offering to help them pay for gas – and made her point, too.
“That was real sweet of you. You've made us so proud of you in many ways. I just hope you are keeping your grades up. I know you probably get tired of hearing this, but you have so much going for you and (are) quite capable of doing good.”
The letters were often empowering – “We trust your judgment; our main concern is you.” – or protective – “Please do not get out too far in the ocean.”
They could also be comforting.
“Do hope things are worked out by the time this letter reaches you. I'm sure you do not understand but when you boys are troubled or hurt, we hurt too.”
Mom closed that same letter with these words:
“Looking forward to having you (home) for a week or so. It seems like when you were here the last time I hardly saw you. Take care. I love you.”
I don't remember if I spent more time with Mom and Dad the next time I was home, but I hope I did.
How good God has been
Of all the letters I found, there is one that sticks out. Mom wrote it on a snowy Sunday afternoon after hearing that my friend Gary Clayton and I had arrived safely back at school from Roxboro.
“As Daddy told Wilbert (Gary's father), God certainly answers prayers. Do you stop and think often enough of how good God has been to all of us?”
When Mom wrote that, she was 40. The first signs of Alzheimer's surfaced when she was 50, and she began her long goodbye.
Through it all, despite Alzheimer's intrusion, she never complained, never wavered in her faith, never stopped professing that God had been good to us.
No disease could take away the love we shared, or the words she wrote with her own hands in those letters that I now cherish.
In a world of e-mails, text messages and cellular phones, the letters are a treasure.
They won't go back in a box, anymore.
