Letters from the Lunchbox began at a funeral. A little odd I know, but mixed in with the tears of that day I found a moment of hope.
His name was Brent. He died at the age of 44 after being diagnosed with cancer. He was the steadfast husband of a good friend. Before the service began, I joined with other mourners and quietly walked around a room looking at remembrances and photographs. The displays captured snapshots of a vibrant man who left behind a wife and three children.
In the corner of the room was a curious collection of three brown paper lunch bags. The bags appeared packed for the day, top neatly folded down, as if the labeled recipient was expected at any moment. In front of each bag was a small stack of 3×5 index cards. The cards were full of writing and addressed to the owner of the lunch bag. In the center of the table was a small easel with a framed explanation that stated every morning, before backpacks were outfitted and breakfast was eaten, Brent sat with a 3×5 card and wrote some words to each child. He did it every school day, up to the end, through all the loathsome treatments and fatigue. Some messages were filled with humor, others more sober and reflective. There were notes of encouragement, wishes for a great day, and for dreams to come true. He recounted favorite times together, told inside jokes, and gave personal counsel. When he finished his thoughts, he carefully tucked the card inside the brown paper lunch sack creating treasured heirlooms for the future.
I’ve never forgotten the cards and the value of the messages written on them. And now, eleven years later, cancer has made its unwelcome entrance into my world. Kevin, my husband, has stage 4. A sneak attack in the dark that provoked a gnarled tangle of emotions that I try to unravel each day – my own 3×5 lunchbox cards of reflections, struggles, and hopes that I share with you.