Intimate Letters on Personal Problems

REV. J. R. MILLER, D.D., whom God called to himself July 2, 1912, after a lifetime of ministry to others, was famous not only as author, editor and church builder, but also as a letter writer. And it was by his daily contact with people, in person and through the mails, that he was able to do the work which will make his name live as one who has served his fellows.

For years it was his habit on Sunday evenings, after the day’s work was done, to make note of all the people of whom he had heard during the day to whom letters might do good. Of course the names of the sick went down on that list, as well as those who had recovered from sickness, those who had returned from a journey, and those who were about to leave home; those who were going to college, or parents who had heard good news from a son or a daughter at college — in fact, everyone into whose life had come some event of special importance. As soon as possible a letter was sent, with an appropriate word of sympathy, congratulation, cheer, or good wishes.

Then he kept a complete record of all the important dates in the lives of his people — birthdays, wedding anniversaries, and so forth — and he marked each of these by sending a short letter of remembrance.

As if this was not enough, when he heard from acquaintances, during the week, of sickness or death in a family with which he was acquainted — whether in his own town or in distant parts of America, or even in foreign countries — he seized the chance to write a letter. In fact, it was the rule of his life to send each day at least one letter of cheer to some one who was

* in special need. Seldom, however, did he stop with one such letter; the day’s mail from his office was frequently loaded with a dozen or more messages of cheer. The chance word with the street-car conductor, or the passenger who sat by his side, or the elevator boy, or the teller at the bank would give him the hint that prompted a message. Perhaps the morning paper would tell him of some one who had been called to a position of honor; possibly a caller would casually mention the fact that a friend

* had just been married. Notes would be made of each of these opportunities for a helpful letter — and before the day was done the message was on its way.

Once a visitor told Dr. Miller what one of these kindly letters had meant to him. Dr. Miller told the story himself in an article urging others to write such letters. It never occurred to him that friends would know at once that he wrote the letter of which the young man spoke. This is the story, with Dr. Miller’s own comment:

” Only yesterday a young man took from his pocket a letter which he had carried for five years and which he had read no doubt hundreds of times. It was written when he was in great perplexity of mind and was on the point of turning into the darkness of doubt and despair. He reached out his hands for help, writing to one he knew he could trust, and laying bare to him his heart’s whole burden. He received a prompt answer which, if it did nothing else, at least brought to him the consciousness of human sympathy and interest. He was not alone. One cared for him. For the time, in the darkness, he could not see Christ, but he could see his human friend who stood close by him in love.

1 ‘The letter which came to him in answer to his heart’s unburdening proved the very word of Christ to him. For months it was all the gospel he could read. Its few strong, simple, confident sentences were like anchor-chains to his soul amid the waves. At last all the darkness fled away, the storms were quieted, Christ himself was revealed once more in blessed, glorious light, and holy peace filled his soul.

’ i But it was the letter that saved him. It was the hand of Christ to him. Is it any wonder that he cherished it as the most sacred of all his treasures? It has been kept so long and read so often that the paper is worn out. But no money would buy it from the young man.”

“I can’t understand how he could keep in touch with folks as he did,” a business man said a few days after the death of the letter writer. “I have, carefully laid away, a package of messages from him. Somehow he kept track of me from the time I took my first position. Every time my salary was increased he wrote to me. There was a letter when I was married, and more letters on wedding anniversaries. When a child was born, when there was sickness in the home, when there were financial reverses, when we were rejoicing or sorrowing for almost any special reason, he wrote to us. And to think that he did no more for us than for thousands of others, some of whom he had never seen.”

Dr. Miller wondered how it could be that hundreds of people whose names he had never heard were willing to confide in him and ask his counsel. Once he told his feeling in a letter:

i i There is something very sacred in such experiences. One of the most uplifting things possible in human life is to be trusted, especially to have one come with questions and possibly troubles or difficulties, hoping and expecting to

A Knight of the Golden Pen J

find light, comfort, or help. Nothing else in the world means quite so much to me as the fact that many people do thus put their confidence in me, taking my advice and counsel without question.

When Dr. Miller was asked to write a message as to the privilege of letter-writing, after speaking of the use the art may be to pastors, he said:

“Then others besides pastors may find many opportunities for helpfulness in letter-writing. It wants only an instinct which shall tell always when to write and to whom, and skill to write just the words that are needed, not too few, not too many, and never perfunctory; always from the heart; without cant, yet ever saying something worth while; free from sentimentality, but breathing always the spirit of love; in no case officious or intrusive, but always sympathetic, inspired by the desire to be helpful, full of cheer.

t i There is one kind of letters we should never be guilty of writing — letters which would discourage, which would make the heart less brave for its tasks and struggles. It is a sin to be a discourager, yet there are some people who are forever committing this sin. When we write letters we should always have something bright and uplifting to say. If we cannot write in this strain, we should put our letters into the wastebasket instead of into the mail box. When we write to those in sorrow, we need not dwell on the sad phases — our friends know these aspects of their trouble well enough already; our letter should rather bring its word of hope, something of God’s wonderful comfort. When we send a letter to one who is ill, we are cruel if we say a word to make our friend more conscious of his illness — too much sympathy has precisely and only this effect. It will be far kinder if we try to make our sick friend forget his illness and lift up his heart in hope and song.

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