Letters to God

"Are you there, God? It's me..."

Again, me. Yes. I know I've been asking for this a lot lately, but...

Could you please help?"

She wrote the letter pathetically. It was a constant habit of hers. To write letters to God. It was a cathartic. It was literally therapy. If she didn't she would end up yelling at people she didn't mean to hurt or laying her work clothes in tears, pondering if life was worth it at all.

And would could be so big and so bad of a problem?

It didn't even seem worthy enough.

Some people were starving or living in poverty or abuse.

Here she was, making a living, living at home... barely living at all.

The classic story.

Her mother hated her boyfriend.

Her first best friend despised her current best friend.

And lately, in a world torn apart by hatred and pestilence, it felt like these were the only two friends she really had. The people she trusted the most- whose opinion she valued over anyone's, even her own.

It sounds naive and not worth the time to read, so why write to God? He has a million other letters to read, much more lengthy and important. Yet, here would be her's, perched upon an imaginary counter, where angels would sift through to find the neediest request. Perhaps, someone - someone new to the job- would accidentally read it, find some relation to it, and pass it on to the Big Man.

When he'd get it, it would begin:

"Are you there, God? It's me..."

Again, me. Yes. I know I've been asking for this a lot lately, but...

Could you please help?"

"Tonight was another fight. And it's Valentine's Day! How could my mother not expect me to want to see him? Of course, I'm trying to do things better- trying to keep my two lives separate- so I booked a room for the night. I know, I'm sure to you that sounds really bad. But, I can't be with him at college because, guess what, I'm not in college anymore. I have to be the adult. I can't have him at my house because, oh that's right, it's not my house- it's my parents' house... a fact that never seemed as shockingly real as now."

"God, I thought things would be sooooo different when I moved back home, took the job close-by, and began my 'life.'

Well- this doesn't feel like mine.

I have no freedom.

I am controlled by more and more things and people.

I go to work and give everything I have. I come home and I try to provide for my family. I try to be a good daughter and a good sister.

And then there's Pete.

I love him.

I love him so much that I called him after work today just to tell him, over and over, "I love you."

My love for him is something I have never encountered before. In a way, it's blind. In a way, it's overly forgiving, overly understanding, overly young. And I love that about my love. It has no basis in rationality, or functionality. It has no care for what others think. It simply is just love. Open, honest, unfiltered love."

"My mom can't see that. She thinks it's stupid, naive, foolish love. She thinks Pete is disrespectful and immature. She expected him to do and be everything she's ever dreamed for me. She thinks that he doesn't talk to her politely- that he talks down to her and to me- that he's using me to find his own life. All of these words and opinions, they scare me to death, God! I put so much stock in what my mother thinks, it manipulates my own thoughts and feelings. How am I supposed to react to all that?"

"I try.

I try.. a lot.

I try to avoid the problem.

I try to address the problem.

I try to find any solution.

Moving out. Breaking up. Anything.

Everything is scary. Everything is unrealistic. Everything seems hopeless.

I try to reach out to friends.

Some respond.

A few try to help or offer their advice.

Much of it is- talk about it or leave. Have the hard conversation.

Well every conversation about this is hard. And there's never an answer.

Just more wasted time.

More hurt feelings.

More work to be done.

Plenty of depression."

"So, here I am, God.

Trying once more to talk to you. Once more to write out exactly and precisely how I feel. I'm trapped here and I can't see the way out. All the more, I just keep losing feeling for either side of the situation. There is enmity put between my mother and I. There is doubt put between my boyfriend and I. This, ultimately, is a losing battle."

"Is there a someone out there that believes in love?

Is there someone out there that believes in me? In us? In any of this?"

"I met Pete and I instantly felt something. We just fit together. We can relax near each other, we can be ourselves around each other. He loves kids, he is a kid. He reminds me of sunlight and goodness. I'll admit, not everything has been easy. He's made a lot of mistakes, so have I. All these faults, I don't chalk up on a point board somewhere, as if I'm holding everything he does against him. Maybe that's silly. My mom would think so- as she so often urges me to leave him and look for someone better. But better doesn't even make sense when you've found someone you love. There is no one 'better.' No one would ever be that one person. No one would ever laugh at your jokes like they do. No one would ever hold you like they do. No one would ever make you smile like they do."

"Maybe I'm too much of a romantic. Maybe I believe too hard. I suppose I could move on and try to find someone else to fit the bill. But it would hurt, on both sides, and for what reason? To make this all easier? That doesn't seem to makes sense to me, God. You never said that this life would be easy- which gives me the slight assurance that what I'm experiencing is normal and good and right."

"One question, Lord: do you believe in us?

For so long I believed that it was you who brought Pete to me. I'd thank you over and over for what a love I'd found.

Now I'm praying for us just to make it.

Help me, God.

I hang helplessly onto this love that I've found, as wind and waves of doubt and disapproval beat against me.

I know you love me, God.

I know you love Pete.

Please, please, help us to get through the storm. To be close to each other and close to you.

I don't want to lose him.

I don't want to lose my family.

I don't want to lose you, God.

You are all that I have left."

She felt like that was the end of her painfully dumb letter. She prayed that maybe an angel would respond. Send her a sign? Give her some peace? Any indication that she was on the right road?

But, of course, letters to God don't quite work like that.

She resolved that perhaps this gave her some serenity about it all. Here it was, out on paper, should could look at it and read those words over and over again. They empowered her.

They reminded her of what she believed.

Yes, she loved Pete.

Yes, she loved her mother.

Yes, she loved God.

This were the tenets that her fragile world was built on. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe she put too much into this little life she created. Maybe the answer was to leave everyone and start over from scratch. But how?

Maybe she was loving too many people and too intensely. Although, she didn't think God would penalize people for loving each other.

Maybe she'd just forgotten what it was like to love and care for herself. Maybe she needed to stop everything in order to do that.

That thought haunted her...

"How, God, do I love myself?

I know that your love for me is perfect. You don't ask anything of me, but my presence. You just want me near you. That's all I want to. I haven't felt near you in a long while. Since college, really. Since my schedule and my life was entirely my own and entirely up to me. Wow, how much has changed. Now, I have only pockets of time that belong to me. Minutes that I can count up before I have to be accountable, responsible, and on the clock. There's no time for mental health. No time for prayer. Just time to be perfect and strong and unyielding. I can't help but crumble. And I know you're there. You're holding me as I fall apart. There's even that Bible verse about how you wipe every tear from our eyes. Sorry, this year must have you carrying bucketfuls. I just want to be better. But, I suppose, that word, 'better,' doesn't apply. This life of mine is handcrafted by you for purposes I have yet to understand. And who am I to determine how good of a life I have, how compelling of a story. This is the part where the main character struggles and learns and grows, yearning for a new chapter. I hand over my story. I believe in your ability, Lord, to write it well.

Write me well, dear Lord. Give me courage. Grant that I may be close to you, even when I can't see where I am. The reality that I am here, writing to you, is enough to assure me, that you are there, writing to me, too."