When words can't come out

NORFOLK

George Senter smiled as he surveyed the class he was about to lead.

About 15 men had joined him at First Baptist Church Norfolk on a Sunday in January to learn how to write a letter – the emotion-packed and weighty kind.

“You’ll learn about blessings from God,” Senter said in a voice dripping with North Carolina. Senter, a burly 65-year-old, assured the men they’d finish as better letter writers during the four-session course, slated to end in April.

Senter is a tough guy, a superintendent for a government construction contractor, but he understands the value of feelings and committing them to paper. It’s a tradition for the men in his family that goes back at least as far as his grandfather, who penned lengthy letters extolling God to his wife and others. Senter has the letters – dating to at least 1890 – to prove it.

Senter also has letters from his own father, yet he feels his father didn’t completely reveal himself. Senter wanted to learn to be more open with his writing and to help men in his church do the same.

As Senter spoke, Scott Furlough listened.

The last time Furlough had written anything of importance was more than 11 years ago when he and his wife, Sarah, married. It was a letter telling her why he had fallen in love with her.

He sees himself as an email guy and cringes when he realizes he barely sends greeting cards.

During the first class, Senter talked about the importance of leaving letters as a legacy for the family, and Furlough embraced the message.

Though 36, experiences have shown Furlough that his time on this Earth is not guaranteed.

He doesn’t want to waste any more of it.

When the Furloughs married, they were Christian on paper but didn’t practice their faith.

That would change after Sarah gave birth to their first children, twin boys, in December 2005. Logan, 1-pound, was born Christmas Eve; Cooper, 2-pounds, came five days later.

They were about three months premature.

The babies had many surgeries while at Children’s Hospital of The King’s Daughters. Furlough watched them suffer, helplessly. He had been a man who recited only The Lord’s Prayer, but now, he implored God for help from the heart.

Cooper was released after nearly three months. Logan stayed in the hospital and, at 5??months, died there, in Furlough’s arms.

It was the worst day of his life.

The Furloughs leaned on God for support. Their journey led them to many churches, and the words they heard at First Baptist Norfolk resonated. The Virginia Beach couple made it their home.

They were baptized there, and now they regularly attend services and Bible study.

Their faith helped them when, in May 2010, Sarah’s father, Willie Kibler, had a massive heart attack at work and died at his desk, at age 63.

Afterward, they looked at Kibler’s photos and greeting cards. Sarah cherishes the cards but wishes her father had written more.

She knows firsthand the power of letters.

She had corresponded with her cousin Jennifer Kibler for years. Jennifer, long sick, died at age 17. Nearly 16 years later Sarah, now 34, looks at Jennifer’s letters, and “the handwriting brings back a flood of memories.”

Furlough wished he had the talent to write something of such weight. His graphic design skills, which he plies in a marketing a communications department, don’t translate into words.

Kibler’s surprising death underscored Furlough’s desire. He has no letters from his own father, who is hindered by an education cut short, and that fed his longing to learn, too.

Last year his prayer was answered when he heard at church about an upcoming program, Letters from Dad, that would teach him to write significant letters to family members.

He felt called.

Senter learned about Letters from Dad through promotional material and a video that made their way around the church offices about two years ago.

The program impressed him. He ordered a facilitator kit. He scheduled training classes for himself and a few other men at church, but storms forced him to cancel several times. After training was finally completed, the program was talked up at the men’s ministry’s barbecue bash last November.

Of the 100-plus men there, about 20 signed up for the course.

In January about 15 of those men showed for the first class. Some, like Furlough, paid a base rate of $59, which got them a basic binder with assignments and a Letters from Dad book. Others paid as much as $95, which included additional materials such as high-quality writing paper, envelopes and a leather binder. They also could pay $59 for a mahogany box in which to keep the letters.

During the first class, Senter introduced the men to basic concepts and showed a video for inspiration. He gave them time to begin writing a letter to their wives and tasked each with finishing and delivering it before the next class, set for February. They could use a letter template from their binder to help.

On Feb. 13, 12 men showed up. Senter got the discussion rolling.

He had taken his wife, Patty, to a restaurant and presented her a letter in the mahogany box, he told them. He consulted the template to write it. “I used a form letter and changed some words.”

It wasn’t the first time Senter had written a letter to Patty, and he didn’t think he needed the template. He used it because it was provided as part of the program, and he wanted to fully participate. He found, however, that the template helped him pin down more quickly what he wanted to say.

Senter asked the class who else had delivered a letter.

A handful of men did. Furlough was one. He didn’t use the template, and he struggled. He had to brainstorm before he was able to say how and why he loved Sarah so much.

He shared his experiences with the guys. His letter worked on a few levels.

“I got off the hook for a number of honey-dos that week,” Furlough said.

More seriously, “There was some laughter and some tears. I got choked up, too, because there was a part I knew she was crying about. We talked about that, … the experience we’ve had.”

A few other men shared how their wives cried over their letters. Some men admitted they had only a draft or an outline; one had tucked his musings away in a drawer.

At the end of February’s class, Senter asked the men to write and give a letter to their oldest child or, if they chose, the child they believed needed a letter the most. It was supposed to be done by their third meeting, set for March.

Writing a letter to his wife had been hard enough for Furlough. Now, writing a letter to his first-born, Logan, who had died five years earlier, seemed nearly impossible. What would be his toughest, most emotionally draining assignment had come early.

He asked himself questions:

“How do you write a letter to somebody who is not here anymore?”

“Do I talk to him like he’s his 5-year-old twin brother?”

Frustrated, he asked Sarah for advice.

Write what you feel, she said.

Furlough decided to write to Logan as if he had reached adulthood. He told Logan he missed him. He asked questions: What does your voice sound like? What is your personality like?

The tears flowed as the words hit the page. Recalling Logan’s struggle stoked Furlough’s old pain. But unlike that day Logan died, Furlough was crying from joy.

“As a Christian now, I know that the moment he took his last breath in my arms, he was transformed. He left my arms and went to be with God.”

He expressed that in the letter. He also told Logan he believed God used him to help his father get back in step with his faith.

Logan’s death had transformed Furlough.

Nine men turned out for the March class, and most hadn’t done the assignment. Senter frowned, but he was pleased with some things, including Furlough’s progress. Still, Furlough himself hadn’t yet completed his letter. He wanted his words to Logan to be perfect.

Furlough was supposed to have written to his oldest child or his child who needed the letter the most. “In this case it was Scott who needed it the most,” Senter said. “So I think he did exactly what he was supposed to do.”

As for class attendance, Senter speculated he was hitting up against the men’s weekend time. He wanted to ensure a stronger turnout for the last class, set for April. He sent an email enticing the men with the promise of his wife’s scoop dip and special dessert and encouraged them to show, “no matter where you are in your preparation and letter writing, even if you haven’t gotten started yet.”

The email kind of worked. Eleven men came.

Just about all of them said they’d written something to loved ones over the months. One participant figured some of the guys couldn’t find enough time to write. Another said he hadn’t made a lot of progress because he was enjoying playing with thoughts and words.

Furlough was in the minority. He eventually completed every assignment, including his letter to Logan, and attended every class.

Senter wished more of the guys had stuck with the program, but he believed everyone had made progress. He counted himself as one. Writing was coming easier to him.

On this final Sunday, the men used the last minutes of class to begin writing the final letter of their lives. It should sum up for their families their most important ideas and feelings. It’s not intended to be delivered until after the men die, so between now and then, they will go back and update it.

Furlough sees a future of many years of writing letters, if he has those years on this Earth.

He’s begun writing to his son Cooper and his daughter, Libbie, who came along three years ago, with hopes they’ll read the letters decades later. They express his hopes for them, their future spouses, their future children. He offers them advice.

He remembers how he’d turned his back on God and how he came back fully to his faith after his children were born prematurely.

Whenever something small or earth-shattering happens in life, and it will, talk to God, he writes.

When Furlough started the class, he asked himself, “If I was to die today, what would my children know about me?”

Now he knows it will be plenty.

Cheryl Ross, (757) 446-2443, cheryl.ross@pilotonline.com