What I don’t deserve

Dear Just,

The first time I met you, I told you what I had done.  I hadn’t realized the depth of my darkness then — and definitely not how the Father was coming to heal me in the coming years, making all darkness, light.

You sat on the bench outside the apartment building in Arlington where we were staying for the summer, college kids on a summer internship:  you to find out if you wanted to go into politics, me to discover whether or not I wanted to be a teacher.

And you heard it, the question of my heart.  Would you love me, still, like this?  Could you love this girl, this 21 year-old who five years prior had killed a baby?

But I didn’t say it like that, then.  I just said I had an abortion.  I didn’t say I killed a baby, that I murdered a life. It took me 18 years after I told you that humid summer night to let the secret out again — and that is when I saw my action, my choice — my pride and silence — for what they were:

The impetus of death.

{Silence.  It kills.

Pride.  It kills, too.}

The two together — united — are what I chose rather than the heart beat of my baby.

I thought my plans were better than God’s.

And you loved me.

Oh, how I don’t deserve this — this forgiveness, this open heart.

I deserve death, not Life.

And the Father’s eyes shine through you.

I saw the beginning of New.

Dear one, help me continue to hold on tight to what I don’t deserve, this Life, that He might be glorified, despite all that I’ve done.

Because of who He is.

He has come for me.  And I know, now, that He was always there.

He has always been there, hasn’t He? He is always here.

You remind me.

Desperately thankful for you,

Jennifer

{This letter, to my husband, is linked with the lovely Joy, at Joy in the Journey and Amber at The Runamuck.  You can head on over to read other Marriage Letters and join in, here.  I am also linked with dear Laura and other beautiful heart-searchers at The Wellspring.

Counting Gifts, with Ann and other beauties:

  • Life and newness and fresh starts and taking risks and saying ‘no’, even when it makes me nervous and filled with fear and challenges me to trust Him, for real, not just in my head.
  • Warm sun on my back, soft grass under my toes — blanket spread wide on the front lawn on a Saturday afternoon, three precious children next to me, reading in the beauty of His spring day.
  • Biking to the park, five all in a row, playing sardines and climbing poles.
  • Friends gathered ’round, lifting up my son to the Father, and again, praying over him, while he sleeps.  The nightmares ended that night.
  • Finding white paint in the basement and standing in the sun painting the trim on the door, around the windows, and the raw edges where the dog scratched through.
  • Sitting on the couch with my husband, talking, in the midst of a crazy-loud jump-play place, while our children got all sweaty and happily played.
  • The Father’s whisper to my husband’s heart, “I am here”, and realizing how much I needed to hear that, too.

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