When I was on my mission, Tim used to cut pieces out of cereal boxes and write on the back and send them to me as post cards. I thought it was great.
Today, one of the kids pulled down one of my mission photo albums that I haven't looked at in 10 years, scattering the pages. As I put it all back together, I found one of those old postcards tucked in the back with a few carefully selected items that made me happy (a piece of paper that was just the right shade of blue, a picture of Elder Tim Jones with a banana on his head, a sign that said, "Dance Barefoot," etc.).
On the card, I read, "The man that hath no music in himself...." and immediately recognized it as Shakespeare. I skipped the rest of that quote and moved on to the tiny messages scrawled around it in the margins.
What I found were what Tim thought were notes on his day and what I think now are gorgeous poetry:
"October 21 1998 am
Exquisite blustery, flustery morning.
Gargantuate frigid blast-the-leaves-off-the-trees wind
...ice and power that sucks the breathe out of you.
Clear, pale sky.
(rediscovered, but was
me who sought him
out), soggy stuffing
and dry turkey, and
a brilliant sunset
blazing over the
Great Salt Lake."
He didn't sign the card, but I knew who sent it.
How could I not?
With a soul like that, who needs a Cyrano?