The Letter

I am currently working on a project with my "bf". One day I will share more about this, but for now, I can say that it is probably the most ambitious thing I have ever done. It has been such a privilege to be involved in this project, to share this experience with her and to work on something that has touched us both in very deep and personal ways. I knew that this project would be as much about our own personal healing journeys as it would anything else.

And so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to find myself in the place that I am.

When I last wrote, I shared about the idea of waking up. The "a-ha" moments. The onion layers. The puzzle piece. I have been waking up, and now I am waking up some more. God is going deeper, and deeper still. And it's hurting.

While I was in Eastern Europe earlier this summer, God spoke to me about perseverance. Teaching and growing in me, that which He calls me to offer to others. I was reminded of this today as I talked about how angry I feel with God right now. And I've told Him as much. I'm tired. I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to persevere. Right now, He's a God who could do something but is choosing not to. I feel like I'm being held down, pinned by my arms and legs, as someone rips the scabs off of my heart. And I'm expected to endure because it will be good for me in the end. It is not without purpose.

But I'm tired. Bone tired.

God always comes to me with visions, in visions. Today was no different.

Two years ago, I sat on the floor of my kitchen. My two year old niece, tired and frustrated, was in the midst of a temper tantrum. Screaming. Crying. Angry with me. Completely out of control. I couldn't speak to her, I couldn't reason with her, but I knew she needed me to help her get control. And so I sat on the floor, brought her into my lap, and held on tight. She fought me. She screamed at me. She tried to get away. But I didn't let go. And all I said to her, over and over again was, "I know......I know. It's okay". She struggled for some time, but as each minute passed, she grew weaker and more tired. Her screams turned to whimpers until finally, she snuggled into my lap and let me comfort her. Sobbing, she eventually fell asleep.

Today, I am her. Fighting. Resisting. I have been on this healing journey for so long. I want it to be over. I want freedom. I want peace. What else am I supposed to do? If I am supposed to be learning perseverance, what does that look like? How do you cultivate perseverance and still have the hope for healing in some measure?

I feel like screaming at God, "What?!" "What are you waiting on me to do?" "What do you want from me?"

"Have you written the letter?" she asked me today.

It was the same question that he asked me last weekend.

The letter. To my dad. I have been estranged from him for about ten years. His choice. An alcoholic, sober, but still so broken and angry and sick. Now, physically sick, with a progressive and fatal illness. I have felt a tugging at my soul that started several months ago when I learned that he was sick. There are things that need to be said, and I don't want to get a phone call one day informing me that my dad has died, things left unsaid. My expectations are low. I am not expecting a reconciliation. But I need to offer and ask for forgiveness. I need to tell him that he is loved, that he has been missed and thought of daily over these many years. I don't want him to die thinking anything else.

This is not a new urging in my soul. It has been there for years. Four, that I can actively remember. I have resisted it, buried it, denied it for so many reasons. Fear of rejection and more pain, hurt, resentment, anger, pride.

I know I can't resist any more. Maybe as I have been waiting on God, He has been waiting on me.

Today is the day. Even as I think about writing that first line, tears are streaming down my face. "Dear Dad". It has been so long since I have said those words. Hi Dad. How are you Dad? Talk to you later Dad. I love you Dad. There is so much pain in those two words. The cut is so deep.

But tonight, I will write.

As I do, I pray for faith in the One who sees, the One who holds on as I struggle, the One who says "I know, it's okay" and embraces me until I stop resisting and receive rest.

"Then the lion said -- but I don't know if it spoke -- 'You will have to let me undress you.' I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it.

"The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know -- if you've ever picked the scab off a sore place. It hurts like billy -- oh but it is such fun to see it coming away."

"I know exactly what you mean," said Edmund.

"Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off -- just as I thought I'd done it myself the other three times, only they hadn't hurt -- and there it was lying on the grass: only ever so much thicker, and darker, and more knobly-looking than the others had been. And there was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me -- I didn't like that much for I was very tender underneath now that I'd no skin on -- and threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing I found that all the pain had gone from my arm. And then I saw why. I'd turned into a boy again."

C.S. Lewis
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader