Photo: Donna Beeler (Shutterstock) I received a hand-addressed letter in the mail last week—pretty rare these days. The return address was my church’s, so I assumed Brooklyn’s Unitarians were trying to drum up some end-of-year contributions, but what floated out of the envelope instead was a single sheet of crisply folded typing paper bearing a message scrawled in my own hand. “Dear You,” it began. And after a few sentences: “Best, You.” Oh, right. I forgot about that. At the end of 2019—an impossibly long time ago—one of the Sunday services at First U included an invitation to write a letter to our future selves: our selves of 2020, a year I assumed couldn’t help but be better than the one I was finishing. (Pause for ironic laughter.) If the me of 2019 was clueless about what the next 12 months would bring, his words still gave me some measure of comfort when read in the cold light of a pandemic December afternoon. “2019 was difficult, and a lot changed,” he wrote. But he had hope “that the passing of another year means you have found the courage to make a positive change in your life. But even if you haven’t…every new day is a new chance.” I’m not sure how much I’d chalk up to courage, but a hell of a lot is different in December 2020. And I had one thing right: Every day is a new chance, and I appreciate the gift of perspective from 2019 […]