On the Holy Island in northeast, England, in the early morning as the mist rolls out to sea, Brother Monk is up and about. Perplexed. “After all these years, after all my writings,” he thinks, “can it be the Lord’s will that someone, somewhere will find my writings and believe in me?” “That I perchance may be published?” “Is this just wishful thing? yet it has been a recurring dream, that maybe, one day…?”
Brother Monk tugs on his robe and slips into his sandals. He has completed this request and has rolled the paper tight and pushed it into the bottle; next, he tightly corks the bottle and seals the top and cork with wax and lets it dry. Within the hour he is out in the surf and flings the bottle as far as he can throw it, and watches it bob up and down as the tide carries it out to sea.
The letter reads as follows:
“To Whom it Might Concern: If this letter finds the right person who can act on my request, all and well.
I am a writer and a monk on the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, Yorkshire, England. I have in my possession a library in this monastery of writings of a believer in Jesus Christ written from the soul. Perhaps the world may want to read these writings of many years in the early part of the 21st Century?
If you find this letter and are interested in this endeavor I have worked so hard at, then please contact me at your earliest convenience.”
May God bless you.