I believe in writing letters.

Not many people know this, but I once received a love letter from a boy in the military. We had never met. I was seventeen, he was twenty. His name was Justin, and he and my brother Brian were at basic training together at Ft. Knox. I was in my senior year of high school.

As it is with guys in the service, they need encouragement to help them make it through Basic, so we sent Brian lots of letters, one of which included a photo of me in a red, sleeveless turtleneck and a North Carolina tan-- my senior portrait. A few weeks later, I receive a letter in return, and on the outside of the envelope is written in my brother's handwriting, "It's okay, sis. [He] is cool, and I already read it." I open it up and there's a letter from this guy- 1 small page, black pen, all caps. Included is a picture of him, head shaved, dressed in his BDU's, one eyebrow lifted and bulging his right bicep. I immediately think, "Typical guy. He's not been around girls for weeks and he just wants some action." I reluctantly proceed to read this letter, in which he describes that he's from south Georgia, had recently had a birthday, that he and my brother (who apparently was running around the barracks like a ninja) were in squad together, professed his love for me and that he hoped I would come see him on Family Day. I blew it off.

A few weeks went by, and my family traveled down to Kentucky to visit my bro for Family Day. At the banquet that evening I got to meet this Justin. He was so sweet and so shy, which completely surprised me. He was nervous meeting me! Nervous. Meeting me. I had never- and still, to this day have never- had that effect on a guy, which makes me feel like in that single, passing moment he and I shared something special. For the first time, I felt...worth it. He very quietly voiced the words (in his deep southern accent), "Why didn't you write me back?" I then felt like a complete idiot. I didn't see his family there that weekend. I realized that maybe he was just lonely and needed someone to write to him. Maybe part of him was, in fact, being a "typical guy..." but I believe that he was sincere in his gesture. I could tell he was hurt that I didn't write him back. I never saw nor heard from him again.

I'm pretty sure he was sent to Bosnia shortly thereafter. Don't ask me how I know this. But sometimes when I'm looking through my jewelry box my fingers will brush that single letter, and I remember how powerful it is. There's something so personal in letters. Someone else's fingers touched that very page. Someone thought through what they were going to say before putting pen to paper. For me, as a seventeen-year-old, that whole experience was a right of passage, and I don't think it's crazy to hold on to that. I will always remember what he said and how he made me feel.