The Letter

I sat down at my desk, pen in my hand, thinking to write you a letter. My heartbeat quickened as I thought of all the words that would flow from me like a fountain. I was proud of my wordsmithing abilities, proud that I could take a language so simple as English and turn it into a veritable work of art. Any subject, anywhere, anytime, I could write without even trying. So today, I sat down to write to you.

From my drawer I took the tablet of paper that I saved for special occasions such as this. It was baby blue with a lilac border on the left side. Psalm 18:2 was watermarked across the bottom right and a white and pink rose watermarked the center. It had been a gift for my last birthday, from my sister. I love it so, and I wrote letters to her on it every three weeks. It was a large tablet, around 200 pages, with matching envelopes and special address labels to go with it. Not a page was wrinkled when I sat down to write to you.

Outside my window the sun was shining. I could hear the birds singing in the magnolia tree in the front yard. One was a mockingbird. The other, I think, might have been a wren. Faintly, I heard the sound of the ice cream truck tinkling its way through the neighborhood. Such memories of that time, of childhood when I didn't carry so much on my heart.

The house was quiet, the kids hadn't come in from school yet. But that was all right. I liked the time just after all the work of the day was done and before the kids came bursting through the front door, assaulting me with math questions and history trivia. This had been my time, my special time to reflect on my life, and what I had thought to do with it.

I looked back down at my stationary, smiling a little. My heartbeat had slowed by then, but it still fluttered within my chest. So many words that I had wanted to say. So many questions I had wanted to ask. I lowered my pen to the paper and wrote...

"Dear God,"

I stopped. Something amazing had happened. My words. My words had fled me. All of the carefully chosen phrases, all of the carefully structured sentences... gone. I couldn't find them. It occured to me then that maybe, just maybe, I hadn't had them to begin with. That maybe I hadn't really known what to say. Because, how do you say all the things that really need to be said?

How do you tell Him that you love Him? How do you ask why He gave His Son, Jesus Christ, to this cold, cruel world to die for sins that were never His? How do you tell Him that you wished that He had never suffered the loss of a child? How do you put into words all of the emotions that you feel when you read the Bible, or sing a song in His name, or sit in Church and hear His word spoken to you, or when you pray to Him? How do you ask Him for forgiveness when you feel that all you've done has been wrong? How do you say and do so many things?

I felt the tears rolling down my cheeks, watched them tumble through the air and land with soft "splats" on my paper. The light blue turned dark, the pink in the rose turned red. I read the words at the bottom of the page. "The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer; My God, my strength, in whom I will trust; My shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold." Those words spoke to me then, telling me exactly what I needed to say.

I wiped my eyes, blew my nose, cleared my thoughts, and lowered the pen again.

"Dear God,

Thank you.

Love,

Your daughter."