A friend of mine said one of my posts reminded her of another blog she follows: Mundane Faithfulness. I checked out the blog and was super flattered. The authenticity found in Kara (the author’s) voice was so encouraging and reassuring. I was excited to discover an invitation to her readers to share some of our own writing in her blog. Every Tuesday, Kara encourages people to write “grace letters.” This Tuesday’s topic: “Write a letter to yourself in ten years.” What follows is my response to her invitation:
Yesterday morning, just minutes before leaving for work, I opened the fridge, haphazardly shoved aside the pickles and ketchup, and searched for the lunch I expected to be there. We were low on food, and the pre-packaged salad I had so thoughtfully remembered to buy for myself was missing. I knew my husband took it. I seethed with impatience and frustration. In the seconds it took for me to find my phone to call him, the still, small Voice in my spirit asked me: Why do you need to call him? You know he took your lunch. Calling him won’t fill your belly. Show him a little grace.
But I’m kind of a pro at ignoring that still, small voice, and I demonstrated my expertise as my fingers hit “call” on the screen. “Did you take my lunch” I asked him. There was a pause, a quiet “yes” and then a dejected “I’m sorry.” “That’s okay,” I lied. The thing about lying to a husband that loves you is that he knows when you’re lying. He knew I was upset, and now he was upset as well because of it.
About an hour later, before the rush of the work day began, I found myself with a moment of quiet. I pulled out my phone—that dreaded device which had previously allowed me to transmit all my passive-aggression—and caved into the Spirit that was quietly nudging me toward grace. “I’m sorry for calling you this morning about lunch. Please forgive me. I’m a work in progress,” I wrote.
Dear Liz in Ten Years,
I hope you have remembered you are a work in progress, because it is only in the steady and sure hand of forgiveness that one can become a New Creation.
I hope that with every year that has passed, you have shed the layers of falsity that undoubtedly come from heeding the expectations of others instead of the intuition that is found deep within you. I hope your existence subsists in the Reality that you are loved and accepted, because it is only in this existence that you will become the creation you were originally intended to be.
I hope that you have lived your life not just breathing, but knowing you are alive. I hope that you have seen the sacredness hidden in the painfully ordinary moments of existence. And I hope the apparently sacred moments of life were made even more sacred because of your recognition of the fact that those moments are finite.
Ultimately, I hope that the “you” in ten years is more you. Your life is a journey toward discovering—or maybe, in a mysterious way, remembering and reclaiming—who you were originally created to be in the first place.
So to my future self—I guess my prayer for you is that you look back on your past with forgiveness, and that this grace has transformed you into a New Creation.