Our guest post comes from Joyce Barrett Stephenson.

When I was fifteen I was inspired to write a letter to myself at age twenty-five. I read this idea in a book, and thought it was a good one. So, on July 16, 1939, I wrote my letter and sealed it up. Managing to take this unopened letter with me everywhere I went, I actually remembered to read it on the very day it was meant to finally be read.

Here it is:

Dear Me,

Are you happy? Real happiness is the only thing worth having, isn’t it? You are the year when all my dreams come true, so to speak—the year when my practical education is to finish. Have you been on that mission? Have you grown to love God and depend on Him as you promised? Just how many friends, I mean real friends, have you got? Have you learned to be a real friend to those you love? Do you count nine stars for nine nights so that on the ninth night you will dream of the man you are going to marry? I do. Are you a registered nurse? I have wanted ever since I can remember for you to be that. To learn to care for man’s mental ills and worries is very valuable. Have you been to Canada again? Now, here is the big question—Are you married? Who is he? Is he clean? Can you trust him? Is he a “Mormon”? Is he a Man? Does he love you? Do you ever write anything such as stories or anything? That’s another one of my ambitions for you. I just finished reading “The Harvester” by Gene Stratton Porter. Don’t you dare get married to a man who does not love and is not loved the way he was in the end of that book. Whatever you do don’t marry for anything but love. Don’t marry out of the Church. Don’t marry out of the Temple. If you don’t love him enough to be with him for time and eternity then don’t marry him at all.

Are your brothers fine, strong, clean men? Mine are lovely boys and I have high hopes for them. Are your mother and daddy well and happy? Mine are and they are so wonderful. How is the world getting along? Right now things look pretty black. Hitler and Mussolini have everyone on pins and needles. The last war was supposed to be a war to end all wars. Now, surely there will be another clash unless things take a radical change. F.D. Roosevelt is President now—and a fine man he is—may God bless him.

Is Barbara a famous designer? Is Dorothea a famous singer? Are you a plain, simple, but very happy farmer’s wife? Are your eyes still funny colored? Is your hair still red? Are you still plump? Do you still like books? Do you read all you can? You know, every once in a while I get all cold for fear you won’t be what you ought. Then I get warm again because I know you will be strong, true, honest, friendly, and kind—Remember when I wrote this?

“Have you really lived through a Spring? …scented the fragrance of the newly awakened trees and felt the velvety softness or the satiny smoothness of their leaves? Have you buried your nose into a beautiful flower and marveled at its perfume? Have you felt the softness and freshness of the newly green grass between bare toes? Have you waded over the cool smooth pebbles of a brook of fresh mountain water, and then laid and dreamed under a big shade tree with buttercups all around? Have you marveled at the purple majesty of the great Rockies with their snowcaps? Have you smelled the rich brown furrows of newly turned earth? Have you looked from a hill on the acres of young, waving green wheat? Have you witnessed the divine wonderment of the heavens when the sun tips the mountaintops and rises in majestic glory over the sky? Have you felt the peace and rest of a velvety purple sunset? Have you loved the whole world and all that’s in it at night under the pearly moon and the silvery stars? If you have, you have seen, felt, and heard the glory of God.”

I hope it still goes. I also hope this letter has brought joy, laughter and sweetness of accomplishment—not bitterness or discouragement. Always remember—

A pretty good firm is, “Watch and Wait”—
Another is, “At it early and late”—
Still another is, “Do and Dare it”—
But the best of all is, “Grin and Barrett”.
(Dad’s motto)

Love, Joyce—age 15, 1939

When the time came, I opened this letter in the presence of my new husband. I didn’t remember everything I had written, but I was happy in the knowledge that I had done well.