My children are broken and missing a father they adore. I understand why. I adore him too. I have written about how letters helped me, and continue to help me get through deployments. I have mentioned that his letters home have helped our young children. But one important part was missing: their ability to heal through their own writing. When words, syllables, sounds, and sentence structure escape them, how can they truly participate in communicating?
I have always believed in the power of writing and in the joy of pulling a letter out of the mailbox. For me, there are few things in life as sweet as seeing a handwritten letter, full of sentiments and well wishes. It is incredibly selfless and thoughtful when someone stops for a moment and puts pen to paper just for the enjoyment of your eyes. I cherish every letter from my husband. Every joke. Every memory. And my children do too. Writing has saved me many times over.
But now, thanks to Beth Allen, my husband can cherish letters from his children. Now, their letters hang from his tent wall. Their postcards fill envelopes to him, brightening his day and bringing him home each time he sees their crayon-smeared creations. My four-year-old son cannot write yet. But he can color. He spends hours scratching and drawing “stories” and “books.” My five-year-old daughter has only begun to find the joy in spelling, vowels and consonants, and “fancy writing” of swirly letters and heart-dotted i’s.
Because of Beth Allen, my children have their very own letters. Their own stories. Their own activities. And, the most important aspect of their letters is that they are private. Just as letters from my husband are for my eyes only, their letters to their father are personal and derived, from beginning to end, from their own hand. My hands, my eyes, never have to be a part of it.
When they cry for him, I am amazed with what transpires. They do not ask for an email. No webcam. Not even a phone call. Instead, when those agonizing moments of missing him seize them and threaten to lock them up, they break free, in charge of their own healing. She runs to the drawer, the one I keep stocked full of postcards and paper, and she pulls out her postcards. He follows suit, trusting she will lead him. She writes, draws, completes mazes, and connects the dots until her heart calms. Her breathing slows. He follows her lead. They are in charge. And that is exactly as it should be: on their terms.
Of course, I can understand them. Can sympathize with them. But, just as they can’t fill that hole his absence leaves in my heart, I can’t fill the one left in theirs. Only a relationship with their father can do that. And, Beth, thank you for giving me a way to hand that back to them. My hat is off to you.
