Dear friend,
I see the hurt and the heavy baggage of regret that you carry with you each day. I wish my words had the power to change your mind - that you would believe me when I told you that you are valued and you are loved.
You've mastered the art of pretending to be okay. I know this because I'm good at that game, too. The walls you have built for protection hinder more than help, yet still they stand. I'll start climbing, but I can only climb so far. I am far from a perfect friend, but I hope I can help you understand Christ's love for you. I pray that you'll find healing.
When you feel unwanted, know that Christ is fighting for you. And I'm fighting for you, too.
Stop running, friend. Be still for a moment, take a breath and answer the question "How are you?" with unwavering truth and vulnerability. All those feelings you have hidden behind that wall - feel them.
And when you're feeling overwhelmed, know that it's okay to ask for help.
If you take away one thing from this today, please know this:
I see your pain, I hear your story and I love you.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
the storm.
My dad loved watching storms. When a storm was passing through, he would almost always walk to the back porch to watch. Me? Well, let's just say that I would "watch" (or hide) from inside the safety of our house.
I'm not sure when my fear of storms began, but after my dad passed away I would regularly have nightmares about tornadoes. There is one nightmare that I vividly remember. . .
A tornado was approaching our house, and my dad was sitting outside on a porch swing. The wind picked up and branches began to fly through the air. I ran outside and began yelling at my dad to come into the house so he would be safe. He didn't move. With tears running down my face, I continued to yell "Dad, please! Come inside! Please!" Still nothing.
I fought the fierce gusts of wind to walk closer to him and yelled out again, begging him to come inside. He turned toward me and calmly assured me that everything was going to be alright, but that I should go back inside. I tried to reason with him and convince him to come with me, but it was evident I wasn't going to change his mind.
"How can he be so calm?!" I thought to myself. "There is a tornado coming!"
The sky darkened and debris began to surround him; the wind made it difficult for me to stand. Before I turned around to run to the house, I looked into his eyes. My heart was breaking. He smiled softly and nodded his head as if he was saying "Go ahead, it's going to be okay."
I fought back tears as I turned around to race back inside. Then it hit me - he was gone.
When I replay that dream in my head, I always get frustrated that he was so calm right before the tornado hit. In the midst of what I thought was chaos, he was at peace. He was ready for the storm, but I wasn't. And I was definitely not prepared for the aftermath.
Today marks 8 years since my dad passed away, and the pain is still here. The pain doesn't look the same as it did 8 years ago, but it is still very real. It breaks my heart that he couldn't see me play soccer in high school, graduate from college, or buy my first house.
One of the hardest realities I had to face was moving forward without him.
Letting go hurts, but the healing that came afterward was worth that pain.
I love and miss you, daddy.
I'm not sure when my fear of storms began, but after my dad passed away I would regularly have nightmares about tornadoes. There is one nightmare that I vividly remember. . .
A tornado was approaching our house, and my dad was sitting outside on a porch swing. The wind picked up and branches began to fly through the air. I ran outside and began yelling at my dad to come into the house so he would be safe. He didn't move. With tears running down my face, I continued to yell "Dad, please! Come inside! Please!" Still nothing.
I fought the fierce gusts of wind to walk closer to him and yelled out again, begging him to come inside. He turned toward me and calmly assured me that everything was going to be alright, but that I should go back inside. I tried to reason with him and convince him to come with me, but it was evident I wasn't going to change his mind.
"How can he be so calm?!" I thought to myself. "There is a tornado coming!"
The sky darkened and debris began to surround him; the wind made it difficult for me to stand. Before I turned around to run to the house, I looked into his eyes. My heart was breaking. He smiled softly and nodded his head as if he was saying "Go ahead, it's going to be okay."
I fought back tears as I turned around to race back inside. Then it hit me - he was gone.
When I replay that dream in my head, I always get frustrated that he was so calm right before the tornado hit. In the midst of what I thought was chaos, he was at peace. He was ready for the storm, but I wasn't. And I was definitely not prepared for the aftermath.
Today marks 8 years since my dad passed away, and the pain is still here. The pain doesn't look the same as it did 8 years ago, but it is still very real. It breaks my heart that he couldn't see me play soccer in high school, graduate from college, or buy my first house.
One of the hardest realities I had to face was moving forward without him.
Letting go hurts, but the healing that came afterward was worth that pain.
I love and miss you, daddy.
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