Ten letters · Jeff Kisling
These are addressed to a young Friend who will be twenty in 2046. I will not be alive then. That is the point of the form: I am writing past the people who can argue with me, to someone who cannot yet be protected from this.
They open one at a time, and the key is silence. After you read a letter you will be asked to sit with it for two minutes, in the Quaker manner. Only then does it count as read, and only then does the next one unseal. That is not a gimmick. The whole argument of this project is that some things cannot be received quickly, and a page that let you swallow all ten in twenty minutes would be teaching the opposite of what the letters say.
Ten letters is twenty minutes of silence. If that sounds long, that is the point, and it is the shortest honest version of it.
There are no discussion questions. If a letter needs a worksheet it has failed.
A First Day School teacher or youth group leader needs to read ahead, and a lock you cannot open is a gimmick rather than a discipline. So the key is here, plainly, rather than hidden — it opens all ten at once and skips the silences. Taking it turns the pacing off, and the pacing is most of what this page is for.
Two minutes of silence, in the Quaker manner. Then this letter counts as read, and the next one unseals.