Dear you,
“Short on breath, heavy on time: you lost the words, but
you found the rhyme. It’s all just poetry now. And the walls are singing
hallelujah, amen.”
-Paradise
Fears lyrics
We’ve grown apart this year. It’s sad. Our little gang was
so great. It was you, her, and me – the third wheel. I was always fine with that.
I’m good at being awkward, so being in an awkward position made me feel at
home. Pooh, Tigger, and Rabbit were the greatest in all the Hundred Acre Woods.
I liked us.
And then life. Jobs. Graduation. Debate. Crumbling families.
Stuff got in the way. We aren’t exactly the Hundred Acre Wood gang anymore. But
both of you still mean a lot to me. We haven’t talked much lately. You don’t
know what’s on my mind anymore. You don’t hear my depressing rants anymore. You
don’t reproach me (as often) anymore. You’re still my big brother, but things
are weird. You barely know me, and I hardly know you.
Seeing as how close we used to be, I’ve heard your testimony
a lot. I’ve felt the pain from your story personally. You’ve cried to me, and
I’ve listened, and I’ve hurt for you. But every time I hear it, it has a
different impact. I meant it when I told you that. Your testimony is
incredible, not because you’ve written a beautiful story, but because God
drastically altered the plot in your story. And you didn’t expect it. You’ve
just dealt with it the best you can. I get that.
You were sitting across the aisle from me during the evening
devotion at Teenpact. I opened my favorite purple notebook; it’s like a journal
to me. And you saw. You asked to read what I wrote. But I couldn’t let you. It
was too personal then. But I want to tell you part of what I wrote. The part
you glimpsed. It was one of those letters that I would never send, addressed to
someone else.
“I feel like a failure. I feel screwed-up and tarnished and
disadvantaged, and then some days, I feel like I am the screw-up; I am the
tarnish; I am the disadvantage. And
don’t give me the psychological crap that ‘I’m worth it’ and all that stuff.
Even it were true, I’m so upset right now that I wouldn’t listen to you. This
is weird, but I need someone here right now. Need a hand to hold. Just a
warm hand. I don’t know why, but maybe it would still the hurricane within me.
Maybe it would make some things better, just to know that someone is there,
just to hold a hand in the darkness. How would it make me less of a failure? It
wouldn’t. How would it make me less of a screw-up? It wouldn’t. How would it
help? I don’t know.”
That’s what I wrote. Can you relate? If you can – and I
think that you can – I hope you know that I understand. I hope you know that I
feel the pain. I hope you know that your story, and the pieces to your puzzle,
have breathed beautiful beginnings into my lungs. Every time you give your
testimony, it has a different impact. Every time you talk about the puzzle pieces,
I realize that God still holds mine. Even if I do feel like a failure.
We aren’t as close as we were, but your story will never
cease to humble and stir my heart. I love you.
-
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