Dear Sister,
Once more I push on with these letters. My dear friend, these letters to you do me such good. For a brief time each week, I do not feel alone. Of course, I am rarely truly alone. Perhaps in my car, on the way to a call. But I have found in recent years that one does not need to be alone to be lonely.
Have you felt that way? Or is your connection to God a defense against such emptiness? I hope so. I worry about you, there in that place. Have you made friends? Do you miss your Sisters? You are missed here. A clinic does not go by without a young mother asking for you, or a child wishing to hear you sing those silly folk songs you sing to calm them during inoculations.
Timothy, too, asks for you. He is quite angry that I have not taken him to visit you at the sanatorium. You would certainly visit him, he argues. I have explained that you need this time to heal, and that too many visitors would only slow your progress. It's a white lie I tell him to protect myself from the truth. I know that Sister Julienne's visits, and those of your friends, are likely to strengthen your recovery. I cannot tell him that a visit from me would likely hinder the process.
I do not expect to hear from you, nor do I even know if you are reading these letters. My news of you comes from bits and bobs of conversations with the others. From that, I hear that you are, in fact, recovering. I am grateful. I find that beyond Timothy, yours is the health I most wish to grow strong.
Your devoted friend,
P. Turner