When I sit down to write 300 words, I often don’t know whether I’m writing for you, for me, or for both of us. Sometimes the writing is for me. It’s therapy. It’s working out what’s going on in my life. Sometimes the writing is for you. It’s teaching or challenging. Sometimes, the very best times as far as I’m concerned, are when I’m writing for both of us. What I write is growing out of my walk or my wrestling, but is helping you, too.
As I’m writing this on Sunday night, I want to say thank you. I can’t tell whether that’s for me or for you or for both of us.
Thank you for the birthday greetings yesterday, both the simple touches which let me know you are there and the longer words which, this year anyway, ended up being more prophetic and healing and direction-affirming than you know. Yes, you.
Thank you for talking to God on behalf of me and my family during the past month. The day after my dad died, my mom said “I know I’m not the only one [going through grieving like this] but he was my only one.” She was exactly right. At any given moment, many people are going through a death, a tragedy. And for each of them, it looms large. We can do comparative grief (yours isn’t as bad as mine) or we can simply let pain be pain.
Thank you for trusting me with your questions about God and faith and following. You often don’t ask them out loud. But I know that you have them because you tell me sometimes, in private conversations, in inferences, in hints. Those questions push my thinking and writing.
Tomorrow I’ll be back to normal. For today, thanks for letting me thank.