Dear sixteen year old me, and twenty year old me, and twenty four year old me . . . and all the others in between,

I’ve been wanting to write you . . . to break through the glossy shell of youth, of naiveté, of security. To tell you what I know now.

I wanted to tell you about grace. About forgiveness poured out on a parched and wasted soul. I wanted to tell you about His comfort, and His sovereignty as He carries you through moments of inexorable joy and searing pain.

But if I gave you the specifics . . . if I told you what happens, if I could put pen to paper, if I could spill out the ocean of words required to recount all He has done for us, all He will do for you . . . I rob you of the journey. The un-knowing. The heart lessons woven carefully through the tattered fabric of our life here. Lessons from loss, from grief, and yes, joy.

You wouldn’t be you.

And if you aren’t you, then I can’t be me. And I like me.

Not because of me, of that you can be sure . . . because of Him.

I’m messy and broken and sinful.

And redeemed.

He has stitched our crumbling heart together on multiple mornings. His mercies a balm to our wounds and His faithfulness nourishment for our weary soul . . . “But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. ‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul, ‘therefore I will hope in Him’” (Lamentations 3:21-24, ESV).

So buckle up. There will be valleys. There will be deep, dark wells . . . there are storms coming.

But He will not abandon you, has not abandoned us. The almighty, ever-present God of the universe, the Namer and Counter of stars, loves you, and He is all you need.

You have hope.

And oh, in your life there is sunshine. (And yes, twenty four year old Molly, you will get married . . . ). There is joy. A bubbling, overflowing, grief-tinged joy on a windy night in October, 2006, at the end of the first year. Joy when “I’ll see you next week” really is next week, when you stand in a cavernous hangar that is echoing with brassy patriotic anthems and the barely contained excitement of a hundred other families, living out their own stories in the spaces around you. Joy when you catch a glimpse of your handsome, head-shaved man in lockstep, and he slides his eyes sideways and sees you and starts to grin, your so serious, always composed, always professional soldier-Husband who can’t keep the smile from splitting his cheeks. Joy when he folds his arms tight around you, your head fitting tight under his chin, your gravity restored, albeit slightly off-kilter, because you are different, not better or worse, but different.

Joy in this life we live together.

Affectionately . . .

Thirty three year old me.

(This post is a part of Faith Jam Thursdays from the Faith Barista.)