A Moment of Silence

September 7, 2026

Greetings from the missive,

He took out a piece of paper and a pencil and thought about what he would say and then wrote it out in a loopy scrawl.  He folded the page and fitted it into an envelope, wrote out the name and address on the front.  He opened the desk drawer, then another, and then asked his wife, and found a stamp and put it on the envelope.

He got in his truck and drove down to the road and then into town.  He stopped at the post office and went in, stood in a small knot of people gathered in front of the mail slot, talking about the weather, crops, and the cost of stamps.  He dropped the letter into the opening, framed in stained oak, worn smooth and shiny with use, waved a goodbye that served for the group and went back out into the warm autumn air.

He stood on the sidewalk and looked at the sky, noticed the wind in the trees.  He wore a pressed gingham shirt tucked into khakis, his hair, a wispy white gathering, sifted in the same wind that riffled the trees.  He took his time, but finally climbed in his truck, thought about any other errands he needed to tend to in town before he went back to the farm.  And then just sat in the cab, his hands on the wheel, watching people make their way.

It is a sliver of a moment, one that I could not have really seen, but is easy enough to imagine because of what I know of the man.

When I was working on my book, I had the idea that I would get famous authors to write endorsements for the cover.  I reached out to a number of my favorite writers and learned fairly quickly that this, by design, was impossible.  I ping ponged between agents and publishers and websites, emailing my naïve plea into anonymous abyss. 

In this effort, I reached out to Wendell Berry.  His publisher referred me to Wendell’s foundation, and I was surprised to get a prompt reply from his son-in-law, Ben. He told me that the only way to reach Wendell was to write him a letter.  Not fax, not email, not text. A letter. Simple enough.

Weeks later, probably about the time I’d abandoned this whole idea, I got a letter from Wendell Berry.  It was the only response I got from all the wordsmiths. The note was brief, just telling me, gently, that he didn’t do endorsements any longer.

There is a kind graciousness in this act that is so nearly forgotten is hard to appreciate.  It is a modest gift to a stranger, offered for no other reason than to be cordial, to acknowledge the other person. We should pay attention to this because we may have witnessed the last generation to value this lovely act.

I have too many years on me to idolize someone, but I admire Wendell Berry. He was a person of principles, maybe not perfected, but well considered, and he was loyal to them.  He was a gifted writer, a generous advocate, a firm but civil voice of reason.

Considering his success as a writer, poet, activist, he lived a fairly secluded life. He loved his farm, and the legacy of farms, and so he was there when my letter arrived.  As grateful as I am for every book I’ve read by him, this simple note might rank near the top of the words he shared.  Not for the prose, but for the intent.               

If we haven’t already, none of us will ever meet Wendell Berry.  Last week he drew and gave his last breath, nine decades of gathering and telling stories, and finally, told his last one.  “This is,” he once wrote, “a book about Heaven, but I must say too that it has been a close call.”

We can get a glimpse of him in the books he wrote, in the poetry he formed, in the thinking shared about what saw that mattered, in his care for this fractured Eden we live in. I urge you to make the effort, because he has been a unique example of a human being in this era.

If you want to know him better there are dozens of books to choose from, but I urge you to begin with Jayber Crow. There you will see the beauty and flaws and humor of humanity, woven in with hope, a boundless if unconventional faith, and deep, selfless love. 

If I tried to share a favorite sentence in the book, we’d have to read the whole thing together.  I will only mention a moment when Jayber Crow sits in church and discovers a love for naturally occurring silences in the service.  “And then the quiet that was almost the quiet of the empty church would come over us and unite us as we were not united even in singing, and the little sounds (maybe a bird’s song) from the world outside would come in to us, and we would completely hear it.”

And so, I hope you’ll join me in a moment of rare and beautiful silence, for a humble giant of literature, Wendell Berry. Let’s stay in it long enough to completely hear the world.

I hope he had the chance to say, “I am ready.” And mean it.

Hope this finds you covered all over with light,

David

This essay was written by the author and does not include Ai content.

Copyright © 2026 David Smith