an old letter oozing golden honey into my hands. slightly confused, partially delighted. i was always the quieter one, laughing from far away. humming songs and cheering for the honest four-square players.
open eyes, brighter heart.
there was one day when hope had only filled a corner of my home. a small window, sunlight bleeding through.
then the Maker broke through, and tore down the wall. i left for the summer, and i saw dirt the same color as your empty eyes. where were you?
it was a couple months after i came back. a couple weeks after you came back. you were lighter, more free. and you came over, and we talked, and we smiled.
a week later, and i laughed so loud the house woke up. windows bigger, light fuller. more and more and more.
hey. here's a new letter. sunset blue with a tinge of DEATH and a whole lot of HOPE.
//
goodbye boy.
he was young then. he was full of joy, and he...was the sound of a melody breaking through. a mixture of noises i never heard before, but working together exactly right.
written: Man. I lost hope, you know.
I looked into your eyes and they felt sadder and farther away than ever. [A MUFFLED SONG] Like I had never known you. Like you had never known me.
But I never forgot you.
You're still the boy sitting beside me and laughing over movies about football. You're still the boy who stood with me in the hall looking at our old memories.
We grew older.
You grew older.
[I STILL PLAY OLD RECORDS.]
there's a faint noise. a familiar sound. i hold my breath, and listen to the trees rustle in the wind. there's a valley way out there with him in it. different mountains, same sky, same God. if you can hear me, i want you to put your hand on your chest.
do you feel that?
He put that there.
that is something special. i know it is. and i know that sometimes it doesn't feel like it - midnight overthinking, wrong words, small failures, aching heart. they all add up to not enough.
(and that's the point. i am not enough. you are not enough. where did we get that idea?)
there is a mighty King, my boy. and he has placed a song in your ribcage, brimming to the edge with sacrifice and wild love [SHE CALLED IT KINGSLOVE.].
please, please sing again.
{we know what it costs.}
i trembled a couple nights ago, beneath the lateness (and the heaviness).
terror in my bones, and i couldn't hold my hands still. a young girl stepping into the busy street. the dust swept up into my lungs, and i coughed. you were far, far away. in a city i didn't know the name of. /too far. come back./ no hand to hold, only photographs of you.
it wasn't the worn faces that scared me. nor was it the wagons tumbling by, or the yelling coming from a building in the distance. it was the thought of losing you. /why am i so small./
stones beneath my feet, and i cry out. /HE HEARS./ swept into the roaring crowd. there was a hand, a flash of golden hair, old shoes.
a second cry. your name. something less.
wait. a gentle hand grasped mine, and pulled me out of the crowd into a quiet alley. we walked up an old dirt hill, and he smelled of something better.
/who are you?/
/YOU CALLED FOR ME./
confused hands, quiet mouth. glance into his wise eyes. - what's that? - just some pictures. - may i see? - sure. - oh. (quiet moment.) i know her. - you do? - of course. i know them all. she's full of hope, and she worries too much. but she loves the good ones. she is as bright as summer, and she is learning to let go.
you must too.
/WE TALKED FOR HOURS./
(keep hope. let go, never give up.)
