by Toni Birdsong
A love letter from the Father . . .
Ah, I know this place well; it’s the living room of your heart. Everything is in its place; lovely and laced with consideration. Here you present the beautiful, useful, ordered life others see.
But today this room is empty and only I, your Father, know where to find you. I head upstairs, open the small, hidden door, and gently climb into the attic of your heart. Where we sit. For hours. And talk. Or not. Sometimes, we weep. This is where we work it out. Just you and I.
A secret exuberance lives here; and even though it’s dark and dusty, it’s where hope begins to sprout. Surrounded by boxes overstuffed with regret, and others filled with what ifs and dreams neatly folded, indeed beloved, this is where we work it out. Just you and I.
You see a failure. I see fighter. You see as a mess. I see amazing in the making.
“I’m in the mistakes you know,” I gently break the silence.
“That explains why you’re here so much. I’m a full time job . . . ask anyone,” you say with muffled ambivalence, your face pressed into your knees.
“You are My job and even though you can’t see it, I’m doing some of my most brilliant work—at this very moment. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m well on my way to making a masterpiece.”
“Me? Seriously? Look at me. I’m a wreck. The sad thing is I’m actually getting pretty good at it! And that can’t be a good thing!”
I try to hide my smile and tame the overwhelming love swelling up.
“Look. Here.” I say and hold out my hands as you tenderly trace the scars again.
“That was one day,” I say. “One horrendous, dreadful, painful day.”
“And that one day . . .” you whisper.
“Changed everything,” I nod. “You know, there’s always something more woven into the tough days.”
“But it just gets so . . .”
“I know.” I take your trembling hand in mine. “But I promise the hard days will never over take good days I have waiting for you around the corner.”
“But what about all this?” You ask motioning to the confusion closing in. “How do I even begin to clean up all of . . . .”
You stop as you realize My eyes answering the question.
I move an old red velvet chair from the corner and place you carefully on top as a cloak of dust settles around you.
I fashion a crown from Christmas tinsel, place it on your head, and watch it gently spill over your tear-stained face.
Then, I do what only I can do.
I roll up my sleeves and begin to do the heavy lifting in your life.
I sort the chaos. And I make a way.
Slowly you smile. Really smile.
Because this is how I work it out.
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