The Story — A Letter to God

The farmhouse — solitary in the entire valley — perched atop the gentle slope of a low hill. From that vantage point, one could take in the sight of the river below, and the cornfield heavy with ripe grain, sprinkled with blossoms that held the quiet promise of a plentiful harvest. The only thing the earth truly needed was a good downpour — or at the very least, a decent shower. Throughout the morning, Lencho — who knew every inch of his fields — had kept his eyes fixed on the north-eastern sky.

"We're going to get some real water now, woman," he declared. His wife, who was preparing the evening meal, looked up and replied with quiet faith, "Yes — God willing." Their older sons were busy in the field while the younger children played near the house until she called them all in for dinner. It was in the midst of that meal that, just as Lencho had foretold, large drops began to strike the earth. Metaphor He stepped outside — not for any practical reason, but simply for the joy of feeling the rain on his skin — and when he returned, he declared with a wide smile: "These aren't raindrops from the sky — they are fresh coins! The big drops are ten-cent pieces, and the small ones are fives."

With a satisfied expression, he gazed at his field of corn, its flowers now draped in a moving curtain of rain. Imagery But then, abruptly, a fierce wind arose, and along with the rain came enormous hailstones — white as silver coins, battering everything in sight. The boys, delighted, dashed outside to gather what they called "frozen pearls". Metaphor

"This is getting bad," the man called out. "I hope it stops soon." But it did not stop. For a full hour the hail pounded the house, the garden, the hillside, and the cornfield. When it finally passed, the valley lay white — as if blanketed with salt. Simile Not a single leaf clung to the trees. The corn was devastated completely. The blossoms had vanished. Lencho's heart sank to its depths. Standing in the middle of the ruined field, he said quietly to his sons, "A swarm of locusts would have spared more than this. The hail has left us nothing. This year, there will be no corn."

That night was one of grief. "All our labour — for nothing." "There is no one who can help us." "We will all know hunger this year." And yet, in the hearts of every member of that isolated household, there glimmered a single hope: the help of God. "Don't be so distressed," someone said softly. "No one dies of hunger — that's what they say." And throughout the night, Lencho thought of nothing but that one hope — the help of a God whose eyes, he had always been taught, could see even into the deepest corners of a person's conscience.

Lencho was a man built like an ox — Simile — someone who worked the land with animal-like dedication. But unlike many around him, he could write. The following Sunday, at dawn, he sat down to compose a letter that he intended to carry to town and post himself. It was nothing less extraordinary than a letter addressed directly to God. "God," he wrote, "if you don't come to my aid, my family and I will go hungry this year. I need a hundred pesos in order to replant my field and to live until the harvest, because the hailstorm..." He addressed the envelope simply: To God. Then, still heavy-hearted, he walked to town and dropped the letter into the mailbox at the post office.

One of the post office employees found the letter and, laughing, brought it to the postmaster. Never in his postal career had that employee seen such an address. The postmaster — a stout, amiable man — also laughed at first. But within moments, his expression turned thoughtful. He tapped the letter on his desk and remarked with quiet admiration, "What faith this man has! If only I had the faith of whoever wrote this — to actually begin a correspondence with God!"

So, rather than allow the writer's faith to be shaken, the postmaster resolved to answer the letter. But when he opened it, he realised that responding would require more than goodwill and ink. Still, he kept his resolve. He appealed to his colleagues for donations, contributed part of his own salary, and persuaded several friends to give something — all "for a charitable cause". Even so, he could not gather the full hundred pesos. He managed to collect a little more than half, and enclosed the money in an envelope addressed to Lencho — signing the accompanying note with a single word: God. Irony

The following Sunday, Lencho arrived at the post office slightly earlier than usual. There was a letter for him. He took it, opened it, and without the faintest trace of surprise — such was the absolute certainty of his faith — began to count the money. But then his expression darkened. He grew angry. God, in his view, could never make an error. And God certainly would not have denied what was rightfully his. Immediately, he went to the counter to ask for paper and ink and, with great effort, sat down to write a second letter.

When that letter fell into the mailbox, the postmaster hastened to open it. It read: "God: Of the hundred pesos I requested, only seventy have reached me. Please send the remainder — I need it urgently. But this time, do not send it through the post office, because the employees here are nothing but a gang of crooks — they must have kept the rest." Irony Hyperbole