You wrote me, and I read what you wrote. You said such lovely things, the words I wanted to hear. What you typed was more succinct, more detailed, more dramatic and more poetic than the thing I was struggling to say. You gave me advice that I considered deeply; or you gave me none, and that felt right. I know that you understand me, you listen to me, you care about me even though you do not know me (really) or you are very, very far away.
More than anything I wish that you could come to my house, you could sit in my favorite mossy green chair and I could serve you a slice of ginger pound cake, a cup of black black Irish tea, and I could thank you for your kind words and I could learn more about you, your own struggle, too. I wish I had time to sit with you, to knit while we talked and laughed and tried not to cry. You could see the new table I bought for the boys; you could listen to Monroe's eloquent baby speech. You might like to touch the scarf I'm knitting for Everett, I knit it whenever I have to wait for something that reminds me how hard it is for him. It's made of Malabrigo and (if you want to know the truth) I'm afraid Jonathan won't want him to wear it, it's red and a tiny bit of pink, and you know that boys don't wear red.
I haven't been able to respond to you, though, somehow responding to you will be too hard, then all those other emails I haven't responded to will crash down on me with the weight of all your compassion and grace and care, and I will need to stay up all night to write to the others, too. Then Monroe will wake up to nurse and I will do it, balancing him between the laptop and the breast, he will complain and my eyes will ache for sleep. Instead when I pray each night I am thankful for you, I know that you lift me up.
Keep sending the emails, please, I keep every word in my heart and my inbox and I put a star next to your name, and someday, I'll return your kindness and love.