The other day as I was opening boxes that had been stored away while we have been in transition, I discovered a stack of old journals . . . . of course, I knew that they were somewhere in all of our stuff, but I had forgotten all about them. I sat down amidst the dust and shadows with boxes and furniture piled all around me, and carefully opened those tattered old notebooks, one by one. And then it all came back to me . . . . . .
And so I thought I'd share with you, just in case you ever want to know, just what I was thinking of you when you were just a tiny girl. Maybe when you are a mama and have babies of your own, you will realize just how my heart longed to keep you close, safe from every possible danger. For many years, every morning in the quiet and darkness of a chilly winter morning and on the sparkling, misty mornings of spring, I would sit at that little desk on the front porch and write love letters. To you, and your brothers, and your sister, and God. But sadly, not to my husband, your father, for my heart had already been broken beyond repair by then. I tried but I failed to fix that one. But that is a story for another day.
And in those silent mornings, sitting at that old thrift-shop desk with the drawer that would always stick, the words from my heart would bleed onto each page, in the absence of the tears that I was never allowed to reveal. But they were words of love, forever. Sometimes, in the stillness of a frigid, dark winter morning, the words would vanish. There was nothing more to say, for I felt that I had said it all, over and over and over again, and yet no one could hear. Not even God. For if there is a God, why didn't He "fix" all of those heartaches that I wanted so desperately to understand so that I might possibly, finally, get it "right"? And the silence overwhelmed me. But you didn't know. In your own silent, dark moments, are you beginning to understand how much I loved you then, and love you now? I do, you know.