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Sunday, November 02, 2003 Open Letter (scrawled on an envelope late one night) How many times do we have to tell you? When will you realize that you are a person of such talent, such intelligence, such personality that I have found myself thinking if only I could be more like that and others have said the same? And even if these things were taken away, you still have immeasurable worth, for your worth is not in these. For they pass, they disappoint when we rely on them, when we grip too tightly. But you have a Father who could not possibly love you any more--he does not love you more when you succeed, less when you fail. Because failure is inevitable for all of us--no one is exempt. And yet this Father's love is unchanging, unquenchable. No matter how hard we fall. Because we do fall. But he waits, wrapping his arms around us, taking us by the hand. He holds us close and will not let go. And he eagerly uses us, in all our frailties and deficiencies and times we think we can't possibly go on, the times we want to go to sleep and never wake up, the times we want to run, to hide--he takes our despondency and tells us that even this can be used for good. For he is a master at transforming the ugly, renewing the broken. For we have no strength on our own, in actuality--so he says come, come and drink, and confers his. I find myself perhaps incapable of comforting you now--I do not think you will permit me. But permit him. Word of the Day: Myrmidon, noun: An unscrupulously faithful follower. ^ Top | 10:29 PM | | | 
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