Our printer’s been broken. The past couple weeks I’ve been going to Office Max to print out the letters I send (I type ‘em, owing to how horrible my handwriting is).

Couple Sundays ago I didn’t make it before they closed. So the next morning I decided to email my daughter the letter I meant to send.

I had a hunch that her Monday might appreciate a flotation device.

Because my Monday would appreciate a flotation device.

“I needed this today,” she wrote back later that night, making me grateful I acted on my hunch for the gift of her reply.

She began by acknowledging some of the unfortunate life and health plot twists she’s been dealing with.

And then she wrote this …

“Academically, I’ve recently taken solace in the fact that 1) everyone in my major is, like, sooo over it. Misery loves company, but so does imposter syndrome in young academics. And 2) this is a just a week in the season of college. Like all seasons, it is temporary. It is also a privilege. The rainfall of spring is yearned for in August and winter hungers for summer’s heat. There’s a lesson in that I think.

So, it would seem, it is not All Bad. Barring tragedy, a month from now I will be leaving for Ireland, having survived the midterms and late-night rehearsals and daily small annoyances and whatever other pileups on I-76 happen between now and then. Our only job is to stay afloat in the interim, holding on to as many small, wonderful things as we can.”

She signed off with, “Loquaciously yours.”

Meet my new favorite writer.

For the past couple weeks, I’ve been keeping myself warm in the glow of: “So, it would seem, it is not All Bad.”

I love the commas so much.

Technically speaking they’re not necessary.

But that’s also what makes them essential.

They serve as humble stakes in unsettled ground to mark a deliberate consideration of the larger body of evidence.

The commas give “So” the space it needs to fulfill its destiny as a stunt double for “Therefore.”

I may love “it would seem” even more.

How it stops just short of certain, while daring the reader to draw a different conclusion.

And the capitalization of “All Bad”?

So good.

Puts it on a pedestal so the reader appreciates it’s not worthy of so lofty a perch.

In no way does it dispute that ‘it’ is, in fact, bad.

That there is bad.

That there will always be bad.

It just doesn’t allow bad to hog the middle seat arm rest.

For the past couple weeks, Emma’s golden words have been sharing morning coffee in my heart with Philippians 4:8, which a friend recently gifted to me, and which I recently scribbled — in my horrible handwriting and in all of St. Paul’s comma glory — on the inside cover of my journal.

“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable … if there is anything worthy of praise, think about such things.”

Under which I scribbled Em’s loquaciousness.

It’s been my experience that the small things do indeed make for the best flotation devices.

Like typed letters meant for the mail but emailed on a Monday morning.

Thank you poetry sent Monday night.

Humble commas that aren’t technically necessary, but show up for the protest anyway.

Capitalizing things to put them in their place.

Scribbled journals to help us hold on to as many wonderful things as we can.

And the saints in our lives who remind us of the job description.

Loquaciously yours,

Pete and Emma