It was three years ago when I wrote the letter. A letter to my younger self. I remember clearly writing it; I remember the moment I was writing about. Writing letters are one of my favourite things to do, and I write them all the time, to myself, others, even if I never send it. (In fact, if we get right down to it, I think letters and words should be considered another love language, actually.)
But anyways, I wrote the letter to myself through tears and somehow in between them I hit publish and the letter was out in the world of cyberspace, never to be pulled back again. I know it changed me when I wrote it. I know it challenged me and shook me and reminded me that in the moments we are the most lost, we’ll find our way out again.
I didn’t think much of the letter after that, except when I happened upon it occasionally in a journal.
But then, three years later, the words from a friend stood starkly up at me: Literally me. Three years later, thank you for writing that letter to your younger self. She had sent a link to the blog post, and I was stunned. I didn’t even know her when I wrote those words years before. And yet, in a beautiful way, God did, and used those words to meet her where she was at.
I think I might have cried. I think I might have been humbled in an incredible way: that mostly, these words aren’t really mine anyways, nor do I ever want them to be. I just want to be the one that holds the pen. I want them to point to a God who knows what we need and when we need it, and who will use our humble offerings to bring glory to Him.
And that’s my prayer today: that I would stop holding onto the things that aren’t mine anyways, and let them do what they were always meant to do. Let my words and my heart and my hands be an offering, an offering back of the gifts that were handed to me in the most beautiful, gracious, love filled way.
And let me always be the one who holds the pen.