Reflection: A Place for the Called Out

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I have an unusual habit. I write letters. I mean the old-fashioned, handwritten (in cursive), on pretty stationery, with a postage stamp, sent through the U.S. mail kind of letters. One reason I do this is that I enjoy receiving letters. There is a look and feel to a personal letter that almost casts its own light from beneath the piles of impersonal, meaningless, or unpleasant stacks of paper that invade our homes through our mailboxes.