Maumee, Ohio - Marketing
earlier she had planned the letter. Carefully, she had contemplated its
content, revising and editing it until it was perfect. She had
thoughtfully considered each word, sentence and paragraph. No aspect was
left untouched; everything was in its place. That letter held her world
in it, her entire existence.
The letter was a long time in the
making. On her wall she had a short list. Every few weeks she would add
an item to the list, or erase an item that seemed frivolous or
unnecessary. Each night before she went to bed she would review her
Now, in September, she sat at her
desk and began to craft her letter. She never wrote much, just a
sentence or two at each sitting. Each time she would pick up her pencil
and hold it between her slight fingers and carefully concentrate on her
task at hand. She would complete a line, and then review, revise, and
rewrite it. She did this faithfully each night for six weeks until, at
last, she had composed a masterpiece. Her work was detailed and precise,
friendly yet firm, and honest and sincere. It was obvious her letter
came directly from her heart.
Finally, on November 15th she placed her correspondence in a white
envelope, neatly addressed it, and put a freshly licked stamp on its
right hand corner. She gingerly slipped the letter in the mailbox and
raised the red flag erect so the mailman would be sure to collect her
Each night she would say her prayers
and ask the Lord to remember her letter and its contents. She always
repeated the letter, in case the Lord forgot what she had written. Then,
she would climb into bed and wait on each new day with anticipation.
She stood at the window looking down
the sun drenched street, but seeing only the blue shirted bowlegged
postman as he slowly made his way from house to house, the bulging post
bag bouncing heavily on his hip. When he stopped at her gate her heart
nearly skipped a beat. As soon as he left, she traveled as fast as her
legs could carry her and reached into the mailbox. She examined each
piece of mail looking for the one addressed to her. There was nothing
except the letter she had sent to Santa so long ago, which had now made
its way back to her mailbox.
Dejected, she returned to her house.
She sat on stairs and began to cry, the big, shiny tears falling from
her enormous brown eyes. She opened her letter:
“Dear Santa,” it said. “I’ve been
very good this year. I have been nice to my brother. I did well in
school, too. I do not want any new toys for Christmas. I do not want new
clothes. I want my daddy to stop making my mommy cry. He is hurting her
and you are the only person who can help. Please do this for me. And
send my brother a new power ranger toy. Love, Jamie.”
It was December 24 and, returned
letter in hand, Jamie wondered if she would get the Christmas gift she
had so earnestly hoped for.