I spent most of this wintry day shivering in discontent. The mailman delivered nothing more personal than advertisements. My neighbor never knocked on the door. Under my breath I repeated a complaint I used to hear from my mother: “The phone hasn’t rung all day.” Her grievance referred to something bigger than the black box wired to the wall. She felt forgotten.

This evening, however, I discovered a long letter I’d tucked away in my journal. It was from Lois, a friend who had left town fifteen years ago. She’d come back to visit once or twice and sent me smiley wedding pictures, but then we’d lost touch. After several years of silence—on her end and mine—this past Christmas I’d sent her a card and letter. Tonight I reread her newsy January response to my holiday greeting, all the way to her closing: “Thanks for not forgetting me.”

As I focused on that line, her warm gratitude melted my discontent. Energized, I made plans to connect with people who might have reason to feel they’ve been forgotten. Tomorrow morning I’ll mail a note to the unacclaimed author of a book I’m enjoying, I’ll e-mail a missionary friend in Europe, I’ll call a local widow just to say hello.

Lord, when I start feeling sorry for myself, turn my attention outward, to others.