Day 337 - Love Letters
Dear N,
At this rate, I won't finish this vow before I'm 40 years old, which to be honest, is the more realistic goal. (I'm 38 right now.) Also, I've pretty much fucked up any traceable continuity to the story so far, so I'm just going where I feel like going...and tonight, I feel like talking to you.
You wanna know where this idea to write you letters came from?
It was during the intensity of all my Christian determination, but also my crushing depression. I was in Kansas; everything had already happened. Amber was dead, my family was devastated, and we - you and I - were officially disconnected, "until God gave us a clear sign to be together." However, while it may have seemed to you like I was a stone-cold self-righteous bitch (because that's how I learned to survive), I never gave up the hope or the fantasy that God might give a wink and a nod...and we would find our way back to each other.
And I nurtured these fantasies. I would talk aloud to you. I would pretend to crawl in bed next to you. I would dream of raising a family with you. I would imagine you standing at my door after having traveled thousands of miles to come find me. And I would sob at the immediate realization of how badly, badly, badly I wanted you to come after me that hard.
But then I would also straighten myself up. Dry my tears. Throw away the tissues now wadded up in a pile of tears and snot on the bed next to me. I would pull out my Bible and I would read, whisper vehemently, the promises promised to me until I could fall asleep again.
And there are a whole bunch more verses about waiting on God and trusting him for all the good things and holy purposes and that he has better things planned for us than we can even think to ask or imagine. I was so certain. If I just stuck to the plan - God's plan - everything would work out.
Of course, Christianity has its own little marketing gimmicks like every other business, just enough to keep you hoping that the next $2 lottery ticket will win big. And the one I remember at the time was this hopeful Christian wanna-be-wife trick of writing letters to your future husband. Kind of like Elisabeth Elliot meets Back to the Future meets Harlequin Romance.
You probably don't know who Elisabeth Elliot is. Or that she and her first husband Jim, refused to date because they were so sure of their personal callings to different mission fields. They were both so fiercely committed to God that not even their deep love for each other nor their youthful desires of the flesh could dissuade them of their obedience. Instead, they wrote letters to each other for five years while separated by countries, until magically (or begrudgingly?), God saw fit to align their callings and they got married. As fate (or God) would have it, they weren't married long before Jim was killed by the very people he was attempting to evangelize. He was only 28 years old and had a baby girl. Yay!...God.
Anyway, their courtship was idolized by the Christian world when Elisabeth Elliot wrote her part-autobiography, part-manifesto on "Learning to Bring Your Love Life Under Christ's Control" under the title of "Passion and Purity." Maybe you have heard of it, but if you haven't, I bet your mom and sisters know the reference well. And when I first read the book, I was sold. Sold for all the magical wonders of a fairytale love created and protected and mysteriously designed by God and sold out for all the dogma of purity and eternity that came with it.
To be blunt, there is something very romantic, very dreamy about having a love genie in your pocket with no limit to good, godly wishes. (I was also really big into John Eldredge books over this time too - Sacred Romance, Wild at Heart, The Journey of Desire).
But I also couldn't forget you. Whatever my life had been before you suddenly seemed like nothing without you. And my heartache was just as intense as my determination. So I swung wildly back and forth, one minute pleading with God to save you, draw you back to Him, blah, blah, blah, (but eventually bring you back to me, of course). And the next, giving sober thanks that I had walked away from someone who so easily walked away from me (and into late night phone conversations with a different girl on the basketball team). Speaking of which, you do see how dumb it was to have a thing for athletic girls and then go to a small West Virginia bible college thinking you'd have a lot to pick from, right? There were only six of us on the team - one was your sister, and you ended up dating 4 of the remaining 5.
I tried everything I could think of to let go when I thought I should let go. And to keep hoping for what was right, and good, and pure, and lovely when I thought that would make the difference. The letters were just one gimmick that I used to keep hoping. So, for a brief period of time, I wrote real, pen and paper letters to you as my someday Christian, loving, wonderful, god-honoring, family-leading husband that I fantasized about. Everything I wanted you to be and me to be and us to be...which by all Biblical measures, I was asking for the right things. The letters fell away soon enough, but somewhere in my memories, through the years, I have always written you letters with my thoughts, with my hopes, and my fantasies.
The other weird thing about me and letter-writing is that it seems to be my way of dump trucking my emotional verbage, just like my mother. My emotions are a wreck, I don't know what to do with them or how to fix them, but I do know how to ruminate on them and shift the problem of solving them to someone else - through a letter. I remember all too well the pages and pages of emotional love letters I've written, to not just you, but...1-2-3-at least 4 other unfortunate guys that I can think of right offhand.
So, it may not be that I've grown up at all. Now I'm just writing a book so that the whole world will be forced to read my rancid puke pile of moanings and rantings.
But I guess you could say that there's still hope too.
Hope that maybe you'll read these letters someday...
Hope that you will understand why I did what I did and maybe forgive me...
Hope that if I finally finish this fucking vow, maybe God will let me love and be loved again...
But more than that, hope that I will eventually find healing for all the broken places inside and stop needing others to hear my hurts in yet one more long, overwrought letter.
At this rate, I won't finish this vow before I'm 40 years old, which to be honest, is the more realistic goal. (I'm 38 right now.) Also, I've pretty much fucked up any traceable continuity to the story so far, so I'm just going where I feel like going...and tonight, I feel like talking to you.
It was during the intensity of all my Christian determination, but also my crushing depression. I was in Kansas; everything had already happened. Amber was dead, my family was devastated, and we - you and I - were officially disconnected, "until God gave us a clear sign to be together." However, while it may have seemed to you like I was a stone-cold self-righteous bitch (because that's how I learned to survive), I never gave up the hope or the fantasy that God might give a wink and a nod...and we would find our way back to each other.
And I nurtured these fantasies. I would talk aloud to you. I would pretend to crawl in bed next to you. I would dream of raising a family with you. I would imagine you standing at my door after having traveled thousands of miles to come find me. And I would sob at the immediate realization of how badly, badly, badly I wanted you to come after me that hard.
But then I would also straighten myself up. Dry my tears. Throw away the tissues now wadded up in a pile of tears and snot on the bed next to me. I would pull out my Bible and I would read, whisper vehemently, the promises promised to me until I could fall asleep again.
Psalm 37
3
Trust in the Lord, and do good;
dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness.
4
Delight yourself in the Lord,
and he will give you the desires of your heart.
5
Commit your way to the Lord;
trust in him, and he will act.
6
He will bring forth your righteousness as the light,
and your justice as the noonday.
7
Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him;
And there are a whole bunch more verses about waiting on God and trusting him for all the good things and holy purposes and that he has better things planned for us than we can even think to ask or imagine. I was so certain. If I just stuck to the plan - God's plan - everything would work out.Of course, Christianity has its own little marketing gimmicks like every other business, just enough to keep you hoping that the next $2 lottery ticket will win big. And the one I remember at the time was this hopeful Christian wanna-be-wife trick of writing letters to your future husband. Kind of like Elisabeth Elliot meets Back to the Future meets Harlequin Romance.
You probably don't know who Elisabeth Elliot is. Or that she and her first husband Jim, refused to date because they were so sure of their personal callings to different mission fields. They were both so fiercely committed to God that not even their deep love for each other nor their youthful desires of the flesh could dissuade them of their obedience. Instead, they wrote letters to each other for five years while separated by countries, until magically (or begrudgingly?), God saw fit to align their callings and they got married. As fate (or God) would have it, they weren't married long before Jim was killed by the very people he was attempting to evangelize. He was only 28 years old and had a baby girl. Yay!...God.
Anyway, their courtship was idolized by the Christian world when Elisabeth Elliot wrote her part-autobiography, part-manifesto on "Learning to Bring Your Love Life Under Christ's Control" under the title of "Passion and Purity." Maybe you have heard of it, but if you haven't, I bet your mom and sisters know the reference well. And when I first read the book, I was sold. Sold for all the magical wonders of a fairytale love created and protected and mysteriously designed by God and sold out for all the dogma of purity and eternity that came with it.
To be blunt, there is something very romantic, very dreamy about having a love genie in your pocket with no limit to good, godly wishes. (I was also really big into John Eldredge books over this time too - Sacred Romance, Wild at Heart, The Journey of Desire).
What I really, really wanted was
someone safe who could love me
even when I was wild,
and someone who stayed beside me
even when I ran away.
God was the only person who PROMISED ME that He was that.
That's why I went with Him and not you.
I was sure that God was a sure thing and that a loving God would surely love me enough to give me Love eventually. But I also couldn't forget you. Whatever my life had been before you suddenly seemed like nothing without you. And my heartache was just as intense as my determination. So I swung wildly back and forth, one minute pleading with God to save you, draw you back to Him, blah, blah, blah, (but eventually bring you back to me, of course). And the next, giving sober thanks that I had walked away from someone who so easily walked away from me (and into late night phone conversations with a different girl on the basketball team). Speaking of which, you do see how dumb it was to have a thing for athletic girls and then go to a small West Virginia bible college thinking you'd have a lot to pick from, right? There were only six of us on the team - one was your sister, and you ended up dating 4 of the remaining 5.
Even now, I can't decide if I was something real to you or not.
I'm also not entirely sure what was the big deal about you.
Why did my heart break so hard into a million little pieces?
Why did it hurt to breathe every time my travels took me
through those West Virginia roads...even years after?
Why did the dreams haunt me for so long?
Why could I never seem to love again the way love had felt with you?
I tried everything I could think of to let go when I thought I should let go. And to keep hoping for what was right, and good, and pure, and lovely when I thought that would make the difference. The letters were just one gimmick that I used to keep hoping. So, for a brief period of time, I wrote real, pen and paper letters to you as my someday Christian, loving, wonderful, god-honoring, family-leading husband that I fantasized about. Everything I wanted you to be and me to be and us to be...which by all Biblical measures, I was asking for the right things. The letters fell away soon enough, but somewhere in my memories, through the years, I have always written you letters with my thoughts, with my hopes, and my fantasies.
So, it may not be that I've grown up at all. Now I'm just writing a book so that the whole world will be forced to read my rancid puke pile of moanings and rantings.
But I guess you could say that there's still hope too.
Hope that maybe you'll read these letters someday...
Hope that you will understand why I did what I did and maybe forgive me...
Hope that if I finally finish this fucking vow, maybe God will let me love and be loved again...
But more than that, hope that I will eventually find healing for all the broken places inside and stop needing others to hear my hurts in yet one more long, overwrought letter.
Hope.
