The Letter Never Sent

It’s a letter that might have changed the course of European history, had the letter ever been sent. In early June 1944, on the eve of the D-Day landings, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill drafted an intensely angry letter to General Charles de Gaulle, leader of the French forces. Churchill was furious. De Gaulle had refused to publicly support the D-Day invasion and had prevented French officers from participating in the operation. An exasperated Churchill, fuming in his Downing Street study, put pen to paper to draft a letter that would have ended De Gaulle’s political career. He harshly called de Gaulle’s actions "heinous," chastised him and threatened to expose him as an obstacle to France’s liberation. But Churchill chose to wait before sending the letter, and in that pause, something shifted. De Gaulle decided to relent.

Churchill never sent the letter. Instead, he wrote across the top in capital letters: "NOT TO GO." Sometimes history changes not because someone said the perfect words, but because they chose not to say the wrong ones.

That same dynamic plays out in our lives every single day. A spouse says something hurtful in a moment of stress. A sibling forgets a birthday. A friend makes a passive-aggressive remark. Or someone criticizes, interrupts, or dismisses you. Naturally, you feel hurt, disrespected, and angry, and you so badly want to fire back, send that text, or slam the door.  In that moment, you feel righteous and completely justified.

Before you respond or escalate, pause and ask yourself: Is this really worth it? Is this disagreement worth damaging a relationship? Is winning this argument worth losing trust, friendship, or love? Most of the time, the answer is no.

The Mishna in Pirkei Avos tells us that there were ten miracles which occurred daily in the Beis Hamikdash, one of which was, “Omdim tzefufim, u’mishtachavim revachim, the people stood crowded together, yet prostrated themselves in ample space.”

When Bnei Yisrael came to the Beis Hamikdash for the Shalosh Regalim and Yom Kippur, it was packed from end to end. The courtyard was so crowded that people literally stood shoulder to shoulder. However, the Mishnah tells us, when they bowed during davening, an amazing miracle occurred and there was room for everyone. 

The Kotker Rebbe explained that this Mishna isn’t simply relaying a miraculous event but by reading the Mishna a bit differently, we can see it is also conveying an important life lesson. “Omdim” (standing) teaches us that if a person always stands his ground and is never willing to yield to another, the result is, “Tzefufim” (crowded), the world is very crowded and constricted, there is no room for the other.

But when people are “Mishtachavim,” willing to bow, yield, and give a little, then there is “Revachim,” room for everyone. Peace becomes possible. Omdim tzefufim, u’mishtachavim revachim.

The Kotzker, explains that yes, there are times to stand your ground.  But the secret to strong relationships is not in standing tall, rather in knowing when to bend.  More often, peace comes from choosing harmony over ego.

When I was younger, everything felt urgent and important.  Every slight felt like a big deal that demanded a response and every disagreement felt like a hill to die on. But over time, I have learned that in virtually every conflict between family and friends, the context of the argument or disagreement pales in comparison to the relationship of the people having the dispute. You start to see that, most of the time, being right isn’t worth it, and you begin to redefine what it means to win.  Oftentimes, winning means choosing to let go, forgive and forget.

In the end, Churchill never sent the letter. He chose restraint over retaliation, and in doing so, preserved a crucial alliance and changed the course of history. And maybe, on a much smaller scale, we too can change the course of our personal histories by pausing, by holding back, by forgiving, and by remembering that not every battle needs to be fought.

This week, as we usher in Rosh Chodesh Av and begin the Nine Days, we mourn not only the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash, but also the fractured relationships and baseless hatred that led to its destruction.

The Beis Hamikdash was built from stone, but it was destroyed by words, resentment, and conflicts left unchecked. Perhaps it will one day be rebuilt by people who choose restraint over retaliation, forgiveness over pride, and relationships over being right.

Because some of the most powerful words we ever write are the ones we choose not to send.