Big Hearted Excitement

While the girls and I were outside in the back garden this morning, hanging clothes on the washing line in the bitterly cold wind, we were unaware that something exciting was happening at the front door. The mail man had arrived with a mysterious looking parcel. When we came back inside, rubbing our cold-numbed fingers together, there it was sitting on the kitchen bench. 

We were all eager to find out what the parcel contained. Sophie was quick to point out the ‘open’ tag to one side of the address label. I grabbed the tag and pulled and the cardboard unwound revealing another layer of wrappings. I pulled again and the parcel rolled over and over, and more cardboard came away.

“It’s like pass the parcel,” said Gemma-Rose with delight. “Loads and loads of wrappings. Do you think it’s all cardboard and nothing else?”

But by this time, I had an idea of what we’d find inside: “I bet it’s books.”

And it was. Multiple copies of a book, with a red and white cover, were finally revealed:

Big Hearted: Inspiring Stories from Everyday Families by Patti Armstrong and Theresa Thomas.

About a year ago, I received an email from Patti:

Dear Sue,

My co-author, Theresa Thomas, and I are compiling a book titled Big Hearted Families, for Scepter Publishers.   We are looking for contributions that will entertain and inspire readers to grow their family's heart and soul…

And so I wrote a story, and Patti and Theresa very kindly included it in their new book. That book arrived on my doorstep this morning.

I have quickly flipped through the book and discovered there are 22 stories in this volume. My own chapter is there close to the end of the book. It’s called Moving in the Spirit. Did Patti have to do much editing of my story?  Did it need many changes? Does it fit in with all the other contributions? So far I haven’t had the courage to reread it and find out.

It’s strange seeing one of my stories in someone else’s book. I never worry about my stories when I publish them here on my blog. But to see one in print in someone’s book…  that’s totally different. I hope it's good enough.

Fortunately my story is only one of many. Here’s the Amazon description of this book:

Big Hearted gives you an inside look into the triumphs, struggles, joys and sorrows of ordinary families with generous hearts. It invites you to witness extraordinary love in ordinary moments like the simple cooking of a meal or the hug between a teenaged brother and his baby sister. Just like your family, these families experience pain, setbacks, and challenges. And just like your family, they also experience love and immeasurable blessing through their commitment and care for each other.

In this book, you will learn the story of:

• A father of seven healthy boys who struggled to love his Down syndrome baby girl

• A mother of twelve who learned an important lesson about Christmas from her children

• A special relationship between a teenaged brother and his infant sister

• Two grandparents in their final days who inspired their grandchildren in simple ways

• Two orphan children from Kenya who prayed for adoption by an American family and got what they asked for!

It has been said that God cannot be outdone in generosity. The stories in these pages will show you how big hearted families experience this truth in a myriad of ways, sometimes miraculously.

I can’t wait for a quiet moment to sit and enjoy the book. I am sure the other contributors have written some amazing and inspiring stories.

Thank you Patti Armstrong and Theresa Thomas for including my story in your new book, Big Hearted. I hope the book is a huge success.

Åbenhed or OPENNESS: The Blogging Challenge Danish Extension

A few years ago I was given a book written by another bereaved mother. I opened it, ready to share her grief experience. But as I turned the pages, even though the story was beautifully written, I felt something was wrong. In the very last chapter, I understood what was missing. It was openness.

The author had shared the sorrowful story of her baby’s death due to SIDS, but she told it as if she were standing on the outside looking in. She described the various scenes very well. She had an enviable command of the English language and I could visualise the mother discovering her child who was no longer breathing. I imagined the ambulance drawing up outside her home to take away her dead baby. I could see everyone present at the funeral. But I couldn’t feel the emotions of the mother.

When a story is told from the outside, and no feelings are revealed, it is difficult to connect with the story. It doesn’t touch us so deeply. We know it is sad because of the basic facts, but we can’t step into the mother’s shoes and feel what she felt. We don’t make an emotional connection.

In the very last chapter of the book, the author describes meeting her editor to discuss her finished manuscript. The editor pointed out that the mother had written her story without being open and revealing. She hadn’t shared her feelings. Why had she done this? She couldn’t share her feelings with her readers because she couldn’t face those feelings herself. She didn’t want the pain to flood over her so she was keeping it at arm’s length.

While she was talking with the editor, the author realised what she’d been doing. She admitted her intense sorrow, and she broke down and cried properly for the first time… and the story became real. All of a sudden I could feel the depths of the mother’s pain, and was reminded of my own sorrow. And I cried too. We became sisters-in-grief.

It is very risky being open. First we have to face ourselves. Then we might worry what others will think of us. Someone might criticise. A couple of people have said I should never have written my own grief book. I was told that my private sufferings should have been kept to myself. It’s not the 'done thing' to reveal such intimate thoughts and feelings.

I used to hesitate before hitting ‘publish’ when writing a blog story, especially one about grief. I don’t any more. I have discovered that there is great value in being open. When we are honest and revealing, our writing becomes real, and we connect with other people. And that’s exactly what I wanted to do when I first set out to write my grief story. (I am not saying my writing is perfect. In fact I think it could be greatly improved.)

Of course, there are times when we can't or don't feel the need to be open.

I can write very openly about grief and many other aspects of my life, but there are still some things I am reluctant to share and write about with truth. Other people are involved in these stories and I can't violate their privacy. I guess no one can be completely open about everything.

And there are times when openness is unnecessary. It depends on what a person is writing about. If a blogger is sharing recipes, then a reader may not want to hear the deep stirrings of the blogger's soul, whenever she clicks on for the latest recipe.

But I rarely share a recipe. Usually I want to connect with readers on a deeper level. So even though it is risky and scary, I try to be open. 

Isn't it just as well I have a family who isn't shy and retiring? 

"I wrote about you today," I say. "I hope you don't mind."

"That's okay, Mum." 

My family? As long as I follow our blogging rules, they don't mind me being open at all. They're writers too. I guess they understand.


How do you feel about openness when writing? Does it have a place in your blog? And when you read, how do you feel about stepping into someone else's shoes in an intimate way? Does it make you feel uncomfortable? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

That was the last additional Danish letter. Do I hear sighs of relief?? Thank you, Uglemor for your encouragement and suggestion. I enjoyed researching a few Danish words. When I come to visit I will now be able to ask for an apple!

Ønskeliste or WISH LIST: The Blogging Challenge Danish Extension

I was born on my grandmother's birthday, in the second bedroom of her small terrace house, and it wasn't long before everyone discovered that I'd inherited my grandmother's distinctive red hair. I wonder if my mother's mother looked down at her tiny look-alike, and regarded her first born grandchild as a birthday gift.

My grandmother's birthday was two days ago, and so was mine. Last week my family wanted to know what gifts their birthday girl desired. I thought and thought but couldn’t come up with anything to put on my wish list.

“You can’t have a birthday without presents!” my children complained. “Mum! You’re not making it very easy for us.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something to give me,” I answered.

I used to send my grandmother a special gift on our birthday, but I don't do that any more. She died a few years ago, just before her 93^rd birthday.

I was speaking with my mother on the phone last night. “It was Nannie’s 100^th birthday this year,” she said. I was surprised. How could I have forgotten such an important date? I see it every day. I have an embroidery in our living room that I stitched for my grandmother’s 90^th birthday. It says:

30 April 1913

Charlotte Rosie 

My mother's sister took a huge bunch of flowers and a ‘Happy 100^th Birthday’ helium balloon to the cemetery on our special day. I like that. It made me smile. That’s the kind of thing I would do.

Having the special connection of our birthdays and red hair, I always felt close to my grandmother. I thought I knew her very well. I enjoyed spending time with her, talking (very loudly because she was hard of hearing) while we shopped, (my grandmother could outshop anyone) or while we sat sipping coffee around the kitchen table. Whenever we parted or met up, she would hug me fiercely and smack big kisses on my cheek. But only a few years ago, I realised there is so much about my grandmother I don't know.

Just after Thomas died, my grandmother suddenly revealed she gave birth to a baby that died a few weeks later, from injuries sustained when she fell down the stairs in late pregnancy. I asked my mother why she’d never told me about the baby, and my mother replied that the day I found out about my aunt was the same day she found out she had an extra sister. My grandmother had kept her sorrow hidden inside her for over 50 years. I wonder what else she never shared.

When we are young the world revolves around our own lives. It’s only been in recent years I have looked beyond myself and wondered about my grandmother. She wasn’t just my Nannie. She was a person in her own right with her own life that didn't always include me. When she was with us and I had the opportunity, I never thought to look beyond the surface. Would my grandmother have shared her stories with me? What could she have taught me?

This year I didn’t need to choose a gift for my grandmother, but my family still had to think of something to give me. Finally I said, "Perfume! I haven't had any of that for years."

So my children wrote ‘perfume’ on my birthday wish list, and they and my husband Andy went shopping.

Last Tuesday I tore off the wrappings from around my birthday presents and I discovered a glass bottle of Nantucket Briar perfume and matching body lotion. I sprayed a little on my wrist and sniffed. “It’s beautiful!” I exclaimed. “I love it. I'm going to wear it all the time.” It's going to become my scent.

Andy let out a sigh of relief. "So I did okay?" he asked. I nodded, and we both smiled.

“You should have seen us in the perfume shop,” said Imogen. “We sprayed so many different scents onto our hands, it got very confusing. Then Dad sprayed his shirt by accident.” She grinned. “He was worried you’d smell it on him when he got home.”

So I was a very happy birthday girl receiving exactly what was on my wish list. But there’s something else on that list, something I didn’t write down:

I wish that one day I will meet my grandmother again and have the opportunity to share her stories.

My sister once said, “Nannie really loved you, you know. She always looked out for you.”

I think I took that love and attention for granted. Did my grandmother ever know that I really loved her too?

Happy 100^th Birthday, Nannie. I love you.

æble or APPLE: The Blogging Challenge Danish Extension

When I was a teenager, my mother was famous for her homemade apple wine. She used her own fruit, grown on a tree in our back garden. I can’t remember what my mother actually did with the apples. I just remember the glass demijohns of apple liquid which glopped away noisily on the pantry floor for many weeks. Eventually the demijohns were emptied, and then row after row of corked wine bottles, neatly labelled, took their place.

Andy also used to made his own wine. One day he invited me into his cellar and proudly showed me his collection. “This is last year’s vintage,” he said. “Would you like to taste it?”

I am an adventurous type person, and I like wine, so I nodded enthusiastically. Moments later, I was clutching my throat and whispering, “Water!" When I could once again speak properly, I asked, “Are you sure that's wine?” It tasted like paint stripper.

Of course, I have no idea what paint stripper really tastes like. We bought some once, but I wasn’t tempted to drink it. We used it to strip the paint off an old wooden framed lounge suite. We had big plans. I had a book about restoring old furniture. There were lots of glossy photos in it of chairs and tables and chests that had been bought for next-to-nothing at second hand stores, and then restored into items of exquisite beauty. We were sure we could do the same. We had big dreams. Actually that was all it turned out to be: a dream. Once the paint was stripped from the wood, we lost interest. We’re hopeless like that.

My mother would have finished what she started. In fact she restored a number of antique armchairs. She asked my grandfather for some tips: He was an upholsterer. Apparently he was a very skilled craftsman. He told my mother she had talent too. All around our house were various chairs she’d stripped and recovered with new fabric, after replacing the padding.

We've been considering having our old St Joseph’s lounge suite reupholstered. We’ve been thinking about it for ten years or more. Each year the lounge suite gets more and more shabby, and each year Andy says, “Let’s take it to the tip, and buy a new one.” And every year, I protest and say, “I like that lounge suite. It’s so comfy. Let’s keep it. One day we’ll get it reupholstered.”

But time has run out. We recently faced up to the fact that ‘one day’ will never arrive. We have ordered a new lounge suite, and my poor St Joseph’s lounge suite will be thrown out. The cats will be sad. The backing fabric of the sofa is loose and they like to climb inside and hide when it’s bath time. Where will they go next time they want to avoid being washed?

Once, a friend asked us why we wash our cats. I seem to remember the lady at the pet shop telling us to wash our long haired kitten, so we did. When the other two cats came to live at our house, they got a shock. Saturday afternoons are bath time. I doubt if these adult cats had ever had a bath before joining our family. They hate the water, and so they hide whenever they hear the laundry taps being turned on. You see, the laundry sink is also the cat bath.

I remember when the laundry sink used to be the baby bath. I never bothered with one of those plastic baths. It was much easier filling the laundry sink and working without bending over. We did have a special baby bath but the girls took charge of it. They carried it outside and then sailed over the seven seas in it. It made a great pirate ship. Don’t you just love how kids make up their own imaginary games?

I’d always regretted we never bought any of our children a proper cubby house. The girls would have loved one, or so I thought. Then the other day one of the girls, with a huge smile on her face, told me about the imaginary house they used to make together under the pine trees. “That was such a great game, Mum! That was the best house ever.” Yes, imaginary houses and games are the best.

Of course imaginary houses are useless if you have a family. Nothing less than a real one will do. Now there are real rental houses and real our-very-own-home houses. We used to live in the former sort of house until about 5 years ago. Then we were able to buy the one we are currently living in. I remember seeing it for the very first time. It felt like our home from the moment we stepped inside the front door. It was as if God was saying, “This is the house I have picked out for you.”

After we’d had a tour of the house, we went up to the village and had a look around. We visited the café and sat looking out the window, sipping our coffees. “Can you imagine walking up here and having coffee together?" I asked Andy. “Our very own café, only a short walk away.” That settled it. We bought the house. We have indeed walked up to the café a number of times since we moved to our village. They serve good coffee and delicious cakes, including huge apple pies.

My mother used to make wonderful apple pies. Apple pies, apple wine and reupholstered chairs are only a few of her talents. My mother is a remarkable woman. 

Me? Am I like my mother? No, I am hopeless. I can’t even find a way to end a long and rambling story about apples.

Zulu Memories: Dad, Andy and His Girl

I knock, and after waiting for some time, a stocky man with sleepy eyes comes to the door. He looks at me as if I'm a stranger, raising his eyebrows in question.

“Is Andy home?” I ask.

“Andy?” The man scratches his head and frowns. “Andy who?”

“Andy Elvis,” I say. “Andy, your son.”

The man's face comes alive. He smiles. “Oh that Andy! Yes, come in.”

Later, I tell this story to Andy saying, “I think for a moment your dad forgot he was your father.”

“I think he often forgets about me,” says Andy. “He’s given my best jumper to the dog.”

The next time I am invited over to Andy’s home, I understand what he means. Andy’s dad is sitting on the sofa, a big mug of tea in one hand, a square of chocolate in the other, and snuggled up next to him is the dog, dressed in Andy’s best jumper.

“Come on in,” greets Andy’s dad, smiling. Today he knows who I am. He even recognises his own son.  “Join me. I’m watching a movie.”

I glance at the TV. Zulu warriors are marching across the screen. We find a seat, and settle down. Tea, chocolate and a Zulu movie in front of the fire: Andy’s dad’s idea of the perfect way to spend a lazy cold afternoon.

Sometimes Andy grumbles a little about his dad forgetting his name and seeming to prefer the dog to him.

“He loves you very much,” I reassure Andy. “He was probably half-asleep when I knocked on the door that day. He works hard, you know.”  Andy agrees. His dad is a shift worker, sleeping odd hours. I probably woke him up from a deep sleep. Yes, we can forgive him the occasional slip of his memory.

“But he gave my best jumper to the dog,” says Andy, shaking his head in disbelief. I haven’t an answer to that one.

I think Andy’s dad liked me. Every time Andy took me out on a date, I noticed his father would slip him some money. “Go and enjoy yourselves!” he’d say. “Treat your girl to something nice.” He always made sure we were well looked after.

Andy’s mother wasn’t so sure about me. Maybe she thought I was too bold and independent, even a little aggressive for her taste. Besides I wasn’t Catholic. But there wasn’t much she could do about me marrying Andy. I had both Andy and his dad on my side. We arranged our wedding, and on Andy’s dad’s birthday we became husband and wife.

Two weeks later, we were on a plane to Australia. Before we left England, Andy’s dad hugged us both tightly and he slipped Andy some extra money: “Take care of each other.”

We'd only been in Sydney a few days when a note was pushed under our front door, by a friend of a friend. Not having a connected phone, some important news got passed along the grapevine to us, in an unconventional way.

Your father died. Phone home.

Those stark words stared at us. We read and reread them, trying unsuccessfully to make sense of the tiny note. 

What happened? Dad went shopping on a Friday morning as usual, and collapsed in the bank, because of an undiagnosed heart condition. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was dead.

Two weeks… that’s all the daughter-in-law-father-in-law time we had. We didn’t get to know each other as members of the same family. Dad only really knew me as Andy’s girl, someone who dropped in on Saturday afternoons and shared tea and chocolate while watching Zulu on TV.

Over the years, I've often thought about the tragedy of losing a father so prematurely. We have missed Dad, and he would have loved his grandchildren. He would have kept a close eye on them, looking after them, just as he always looked after Andy and me.

A few years ago we realised Dad has been looking after us and our children. His influence on our lives didn't end with his death. By working hard and investing prudently while he was alive, he ensured that Mum was well provided for, even though he departed so unexpectedly. And through Mum, after her death, he also provided for our family. Without Dad's help, we’d still be moving from one rental house to another, while wishing all the time we could afford a home of our own.

We never know how our lives will influence our loved ones, even after we have departed. Our legacy could live on and on. 

Andy and I are sitting on the sofa together watching a movie. Gathered around us are our children, the grandchildren Dad never knew. We sip tea and eat chocolate as we watch, not Zulu, but Tangled. I look around at the home that I love, our very own home. And I think about the last time we saw Dad. He hugged us tightly and said, “Look after each other.” Andy and his girl are still doing that. 

And so is he.


This post is linked to the Memoir Monday hop at Chris' blog, Campfires and Cleats. Please visit for more memoir stories.

I did it! This is my last post for the A-Z April blogging challenge. 

I would like to thank everyone for reading so many posts in one month. I'm sure that wasn't  an easy task. I really appreciated  all the wonderful encouraging comments. Thank you!

I would love to give a special huge thank you to my beautiful sister, Vicky. I wrote 26 posts and she wrote 31 comments. Don't you think that deserves a number one commenter award? I will have to make one!

So much writing in one month... I think I've run out of stories. It might be quiet around here for a time...unless of course another 'great' idea appears unexpectedly out of nowhere. Writing is like that. I love how that happens!

You Come to Visit

You're at the airport. My son Callum is there to meet you. I would have come myself except I’m hopeless when it comes to driving through Sydney: so many intersections and lanes and traffic. You're better off with Callum. I would only get us lost.

I guess you are tired. It’s a long flight all the way to Australia. You’ll be relieved you are here. Hey! Do you realise you’re a time traveller? All your family are living in today. But you have arrived at tomorrow. 

Have you found Callum yet? Will you recognise him from his photo? Just look for a broad man with a beard and smiling eyes. He’ll make you feel welcome. He’s good with people. Must be all those customers he deals with at work.

Now don’t look dismayed when you see Callum’s rust-studded ute. It should get you here in one piece. Callum should only stall a few times on the journey home. No, just kidding! He’s a good driver.

Are you on your way out of the airport yet? Can you see the blue, blue sky? It’s a beautiful time of year. Of course that sky is going to disappear a number of times as you shoot down all the tunnels and fly up again for air. You’re heading south. Soon you’ll leave all the traffic behind. It’s not a bad trip once you leave the city. You'll see paddocks of cows and bush: lots of native plants. You might see a sky diver floating down over the fields. Don’t worry. I’ve never seen one land on the freeway.

I look at my watch. Time is flying by. I think you'll be here in about twenty minutes. I can’t sit still. I walk around the house straightening an already tidy house. First impressions, you know. What will you think of our home? What will you think of me? Will you stop in surprise and think, “Sue looks much older than in her profile picture”? Will you suddenly wonder if you know me at all?

I stand at the sink filling the kettle with water. You’re sure to be thirsty after a long trip. Do you like tea? I’m not sure. We have coffee as well. There is so much about you I don’t know. But we have time to chat and chat. We shall get to know each other properly... as long as we hit it off.

Do you think we’ll suddenly be shy when we see each other? Will we not know what to say? What if we can’t get a conversation going? What if we can't understand each other's accents?

You will be travelling along the cutting by now. You’ll be whizzing through the tunnel of sandstone rock, gum trees forming a cathedral ceiling over your head. Out into the sun and back into the dappled shade. Roll down the window. Sniff the fresh damp earthy smell. You might be able to see little waterfalls trickling off the rock. We’ve had a bit of rain recently. You should see the cutting when it really rains. Water rushes along the road with nowhere to go. It’s quite exciting if you have a sense of adventure. Don’t worry about the ditches either side of the road. Only a few people have driven over the edge, hit the rock, and upturned their vehicles. Callum isn’t one of those people. You are quite safe.

Can you see the village sign? You are almost here. A couple of turns and you'll be heading down our street. I’d better open the door and get outside.

I’m standing on the driveway peering down the road. My legs feel a bit shaky. What am I so nervous about? I practice a smile. “Hi! I’m Sue,” I say. No, that’s ridiculous. Who else would I be?

What will you notice as you come along our road? Are our houses different to yours? You’ll see a mixture of old cottages and new houses. We live in one of the new ones. Watch out for a light brick house with a brown roof. It’s half hidden behind a shrubby garden. We’re right down the end of the road close to the bush. That’s where we run. I wonder if you’ll come running with us while you’re here. There’s gum trees everywhere, and wattles and bottlebrushes. Perhaps you won’t be looking at the trees. You might be trying to spot me.

“Look! They’re here!” I yell. Everyone comes running. My whole family is anxious to meet you. “Don’t overwhelm our guest,” I warn. We’re rather a crowd.

Callum turns into the driveway. I can see you! You’re smiling. You slide out of the ute, and then you stop. I stop too. The moment I've been dreaming about for so long has finally arrived. What do I do? What do I say?  I wonder what you're thinking. Are you glad to be here?

We stand still just for a second or two. And then all of a sudden, we both move. We open our arms. We hug! We hug real hugs for the first time ever. I’m grinning and so are you. Then we both start to speak. The words come tumbling out… lots of them.

“Welcome to our home,” I say, as I link my arm through yours. We move towards the house. Soon we’ll be sitting at the kitchen table, mugs of tea in our hands. We are going to talk and talk and talk… Not know what to say to each other? We’re not going to have any trouble at all.

So when are you coming? 

XXXXX: Love Letters

By the time Andy and I finished high school we knew we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together, but no one gets married straight out of school: “You’re so young. You need to finish your education. Get your degrees first. You need some security.” And that was why we didn't arrange a wedding but headed off to university.

Andy hugged me tightly and said, “Three years will soon pass." He looked into my wet eyes and added, "I‘ll come and see you every weekend if I can.” 

“We could write to each other,” I suggested.

He smiled, "Yes! I'll write to you every day."

And then Andy went south and I went west.

Every Friday, after his final lecture, Andy headed for the bus station. He caught slow bus after slow bus until he'd travelled the many miles between Cardiff on the south coast of Wales, and Aberystwyth on the west coast. Arriving late at night, he'd forget his tiredness as he anticipated our weekend together. 

We spent many of our precious end-of-the-week hours strolling together along the coast, arm-in-arm, buffeted by the strong winds blowing off the sea. And we talked. We talked about what we were going to do when we could be together forever. Saturday was always perfect, but the thought of having to say goodbye yet again, always cast a shadow over Sunday.

As soon as Andy had boarded his bus back to Cardiff on Sunday evening, I’d hurry back to my room in search of paper and a pen, so I could write him a letter. And as soon as Andy arrived back at his university, he’d write one to me. Can two people find anything to say when they’ve only just parted? It seems two people in love never run out of words.

Every morning I searched my mail box, certain there'd be a letter from Andy waiting for me, and there always was. Each envelope was addressed in his neat print:

To the Most Gorgeous Miss Sue Skeleton.

I slipped my finger into the envelope and ripped it open, and read my letter as I walked back to my room. I devoured every one of Andy’s words right down to the last xxxxx.

Every morning of the week we'd receive letters from each other, and every evening, we'd write letters in reply, without fail. And most weekends Andy would travel to see me.

The first long year passed, then the second, and eventually the third and final year disappeared too. What did we have to show for our three years of university education? We each had a Bachelor of Science degree… and a huge pile of letters.

On the very last day of our final semester of our final year, Andy and I were married. Two weeks later, we were on a plane flying to Sydney. I was returning home after a few years away. Andy was off on the biggest adventure of his life. But before we left for Australia, we had to sort through our belongings. What did we want to take with us and what did we need to throw away?

We looked at our letter collections. Andy’s letters from me were neatly filed in old shoe boxes. Each one was in its original envelope, and they were all in chronological order. My letters from Andy formed an untidy mixed-up heap in a grocery box. Some were in envelopes, some not. All our letters were there: three years’ worth. Should we keep the letters? We decided to throw them away.

I look back through the years, and part of me is sad we tossed away something that was so precious to us, all that time ago. I imagine rereading the letters and reliving those student days. Perhaps we were too hasty in our decision, throwing away a connection to those two young people, who were so impatient to be with each other for life. 

I don’t think Andy and I have written a single letter to each other since our university days. We've never been separated for more than a day or two at a time. As a married couple, we have been very blessed: We've never known the longing to be with each other when we can’t, the heartbreak of having to say goodbye, the pain of being somewhere we don’t really want to be. We haven’t needed to write to each other of our love, and our hope that time will pass quickly until we are reunited. All that belonged to another part of our lives, a part I don’t miss at all.

It's funny to think how slowly those three years of university life passed. We thought our wedding day would never arrive. Now we have been married for thirty years, and each year passes much too quickly. Slow down time! I want to savour every day with my beloved.

No, I am not upset we no longer have our letter collections. I don't really want to relive a time when Andy and I couldn't be together. And I don’t need those love letters to remind me of my husband's love. He is right here beside me, telling me all the time.

"Mum! There's a message on your mobile phone."

"It's from Dad," I say, as I begin to read:

Sue, How was your run this morning? Hope you have a good day. Miss you lots! Love Andy xxxxx.

"Just Dad checking in from work."

No love letters? Andy is still writing me love letters every day.

XXXXX: Love Letters because love letters always end in kisses.

Image: Andy and me on our engagement day. Wow! Didn't we look young?