I could not make him love me.

And the rust of that knowledge enveloped my heart

Like the cloth of a single color.

Dull. Impenetrable. Damp.

I could not open my heart again.

The vault of my feelings was sealed by his farewell

like an ancient tomb.

Overgrown. Untended. Secluded.

I could not make him love me.

And I fear that I shall always be judged- for this

eternally punished.

Repentant. Unforgiven. Banished.

I cannot forget him.

My heart replays his eyes unblinking.

Intense. Focused. Turned from me.

Gravity. Karma. No good deed goes unpunished. Any tool dropped, while repairing a car, will roll underneath to the exact center. A penny saved is not worth very much. There is no such thing as a free lunch. Any broken object, while being demonstrated for the repairman, will work perfectly. Nature always sides with the hidden flaw. And never play leapfrog with a unicorn.

Just to name a few.

But there is another law. The Law of Just Friends. The Law of Just Friends states that if you feel that you are ready for a relationship, the male with whom you have the most contact will take absolutely no romantic interest in you. Once the principle comes into effect, there is no way to back out. You will forever, young single, be one of the guys. Let me make this clear, as a victim of the cruelty of this principle, I can’t give you any advice on avoiding it or reversing it. All I can do is tell you the clear signs.

1. You pay no special attention to what you wear.

2. Shaving your legs is optional.

3. There is a complete and total absence of butterflies or excitement.

4. You both put your hands in your pockets.

5. You notice that he double dips.

6. You’re more excited about the food, movie, or performance than you are about the conversation that is supposed to take place.

7. He never compliments you.

8. Your phishing expedtion for a compliment turns up little to nothing.

9. Christian side-hug. Enough said.

10. All phone conversations end with “Well…..okay….bye.”

Often felt stupid.

Stuffed all of her dreams in a vase on her bookshelf,

but not before she tore the paper into a thousand little pieces.

A confetti of misshapen dreams.

Often felt inadequate.

Learned at a tender age that abstaining prevented failure.

Kept a solitary love letter folded in the foot of an old shoe

and prayed it was genuine, knowing it was not.

Often thought that being good enough was an intrinsic quality

she did not possess.

Had a small cylindrical hole in her heart that made her wince with pain

every time she breathed.

The daughter you had

never amounted to much.

Never knew what to do next. Crossed her fingers often.

Ran out of tears before thirty.

Sat quietly in drought dry self-pity.

The daughter you had

died alone.

Always saw her glass as being at least half full,

but often her cup overflowed with the crystalline, life affirming liquid of your affection.

Had  a small chest where she kept your many compliments

on rectangular slices of paper, folded, neatly creased, and tightly pressed in place.

Always smiled and knew quite well the intangible joy that came

when you spoke to her of her future.

Had an unlocked notebook beneath her bedside table that contained a long list

of her many dreams and aspirations, prioritized and carefully written line by line.

Never hid her failure from you. Never feared the loss of your support.

Never questioned herself. Never backed away from a challenge.

Always found a way to succeed.  

The daughter you never had

grew up beautifully and became the correction of your every mistake

the hope of your every endeavor

and the heir of  your every good quality.

Perfect. Just Perfect

was the daughter you never had.

Her words are not the shy children that tug on slacks
And hide behind thighs.
Her looks are not the furtive glances of a stranger.
She meets your gaze with an intensity that calls you.
You always answer her.
Her footsteps, in the periphery of your vision
Or the corridor of your heart,
Do not need explanation or excuse
So bold is she who gets to love you.

Her garments vermillion are not the subtle winks
Of courtesans in courtyards.
Her scarves silk are not ropes of seduction.
She signals you with the slight toss of her chin.
You always see her.
Her body draped in rags, robes, or rubies
Does not want for your approval.
So confident is she who gets to love you.

Whoever she is
And from whatever continent
And from across whatever sea, or lake, or stream
I envy her.
Whoever she is that gets to love you.

In a world where there will always be opposition, there should also be a place where there will always be acceptance. I looked around for such a paradise and came up short. We humans are so fickle. Hopelessly in love one moment and then at total odds the next. We don’t mean to be so completely ridiculous, but we can’t help but be carried off by the hurricane winds of our wild, often unchecked emotions.

I do not exclude myself from this criticism.

And that’s why I started writing love letters to the people I love (or think I love!) and posting them.

When the rain beats hard and cold against your heart. Or when the sun scorches dry every dream you ever dreamt. When all manner of disaster and calamity befall you slowly or suddenly, may there always be a place (even it’s just this cyberspace) where you can find shelter and shade. A respite against the ruthlessness and recklessness of the world that uses the very ones it claims to love. If not here, may you find your name on a list of treasures or in a story of hope. May you see a flattering photograph of yourself that you never even knew was taken. May you have at least 1,000 good words to patch up the coat of yourself or bandage your cuts with or burn like a candle for a sweet smell, a gentle reminder that you are good at least in part and worth the time regardless.

So look for your name here. Some have already been added. More are to come.

in a heat that rose in slivers and strands

above the baking rocks that stretched

out before us like the inside of an egg carton.

Your arm was hooked about my waist

and I leaned in, smelling your sweat.

Our bodies wanted to hurry

but we were too busy laughing at the pain of ourselves.

In the time of endless summer sunshine

and stolen wine beneath heavy musky trees

fragrant with pollination that served as shade and a hideaway,

we touched and talked and tongued our way through life’s haze,

and I sipped joy directly from the cup of your hands with humility and gratitude.

We held up for hours in special secret spots on the soft banks of familiar ponds

with the juice of magnolia leaves on our skin.

And then, those summer Sundays when you stood tall and broad

in your freshly pressed shirt.

I can still hear the hiss of the iron.

I can still smell the polish on your shoes drying.

All of life to me was the taste of your kiss after breakfast

and the gentle steam of your breath tickling the bridge of my nose

as I pretended to straighten your tie in our small country kitchen

that bowed out just trying to contain your laughter.

It was not.

I repeat.

It was not your turn to die.

And spread my wings like a coquettish fan

Of the most intricate and glorious design?

How many times did I not marvel at the beauty

I saw clearly reflected in the watery mirror

Of my soul?

How many times did I not sing?

How many times did I cover my laughter with

Ashamed hands?

How many times did I lower my eyes and my

Standards?

How many times did I let the weight of your shadow

Grind my spirit into dust?

How many times did I die a little and call it love?

You dictated to me the great order of things

And established firmly your own primacy

I scribed your orders passively

Etching them slowly into my heart,

Each strike a piercing mark.

In the darkness you would peel back each layer

And read your written words like a humble (sacred) prayer

And so you became my religion

And my every decision

Served to placate a god of my own making

Who was swift and continuous with taking

And cheap to the point of stingy with love

You gave me just enough to remove my sobriety

And as I was convinced that my lust worked as piety

You felt no guilt when you boldly lied to me

And gave no indication of how broken I would be

When you decided to leave with my wings

Alas, my beautiful wings plucked one by one

And to think, I didn’t feel a single pinch

Until the last of them was gone.

In our previous existence, we walked as the living dead in darkness completely unaware of our condition. Willfully sinning and turning a blind eye to the bitter fruit it brought forth. We thought we had no other choice but to consume our lusts and be consumed by them. So powerful, wretched, thick and black was the darkness of our minds.

But we have called from our dead places.

We have journeyed so far away from who we once were that the view over our shoulders is no longer obscured by our caves and tombs and groves and high places. Stretched out for miles in every direction is wilderness. The despised middle ground of  perdition and paradise. The sands are hot. The resources are limited. Are we really expected to survive on just enough for today? How can we plan? How can we live? How can we thrive?

It would be better for us in Egypt.

At least there we knew our fate, could see with our eyes, and with our hands handle it. But here in this wilderness, we must use our Faith in the invisible one who brought us to this place of suffering.

Does our God forget those whom he delivers from death? He has shown His mighty acts to all that once held us captive; will he fail to show us His love? It is a frightening question. And we must know that because we feel the need to ask it, we are revealing a fissure in our armor.

Either God is real or He is not real. Either He loves us unconditionally or He does not love us at all.

At times we may question His reality and authority. The coldness of life may cause us to become suspicious of his love and fidelity, but we already know that a return to Egypt is not possible.

There are only graves there. There is only one possibility there. I would rather stretch and push and fight through my humanity that wavers between two opinions than endure the thought of a shameful journey past memorials of victory and back to eternal death.

At least with His unseen hand there is hope. He may allow suffering, but He is the only balm for our wounds, the only keeper of life. There is a future ahead. On His word He swears that it is good.

I choose to take the word of God in my hand like a nearly invisible thread that connects me to His immense yet invisible presence. And even though it’s just a sliver of a thing, this thread of faith I hold, I wouldn’t trade it for all the graves in the land of my Egypt.

Perhaps we are at times hesitant to forgive because we really don’t understand what the word means or how we should apply it. For a long time I thought that if I forgave the people who hurt me most then I would be nullifying my own feelings instead of validating them. But to truly forgive someone actually requires that a note be made of the wrongdoing and the consequences thereof. And then, after everything has been evaluated, the person is released from liability and the feelings of resentment should be done away with and replaced. In this way, hurt feelings get validated but they are not allowed to dictate the future of a relationship.

Forgiveness is not about right and wrong or even the middle ground between the two. Forgiveness is about peace, unity, and restoration. Forgiveness re-establishes peace of mind and peace between conflicting parties, reaffirms bonds, and returns people to their rightful places in relationships. No one forgives rightly unless they have these ends in mind.

There is no worse feeling than the feeling that comes when you’ve told someone that you have forgiven them, and in your heart you know you’ve lied. And as much as I personally would like to split hairs about what it truly means to let go of past offenses, I know when I’ve actually forgiven and when I am just playing a role or being conciliatory. If we forgive too soon, without really searching ourselves, then we run the risk of not truly desiring and seeking after true reconciliation. We have to learn the balance between dwelling on what is past and pushing ahead as a means of avoidance.

The heart that forgives is a humble heart, but it is also a vulnerable one. Maintaining an unforgiving attitude by definition requires a hardening of the heart and the conscience. We do ourselves the greatest injustice when we demand justice before we forgive. Forgiveness is an act of Grace. No one deserves it. Grace is a gift from God. As such it is ours to receive and to share, not to withhold.

So the next time someone does you wrong, take a deep breath and be real with yourself about your feelings. Are you enraged? Disappointed? Frustrated? Wounded? You have a right to your own feelings. What you do with them and how you let them impact your life, your ministry, family, etc. are another matter. Once you know how you feel about things look for paths of reconciliation. Choose the one that requires you to be sincerely humble and execute it.

What? You think it won’t work for you? Well…that’s what Jesus did. Philippians 2. Check it out.