This Is Home

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 ...

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 ins...