So this is me…sitting here in my fuzzy pink robe with the day to myself. And it feels like you were talking to me yesterday in the car, on the way home. It felt like you said it was time for me to get back to work… back to remembering . That it was my job to tell my story and tell it well. To tell the truth, because it could help someone the way that other true stories have helped me. And of course there’s the other main reason: that you’ve given me the ability to write, so I need to do it. Plus, if I write about my experience(s) with you, then I’m acknowledging you. I’m giving witness to my faith (ugh, that sounds so pretentiously pious) but I’m saying this is what I believe happened and it wasn’t an accident, and there is someone in control of my life other than me, who works out the details and shows me his face from time to time.
NO I can’t prove any of it. I just have my memories and feelings. And just because I write it all down doesn’t mean I ‘ve got my whole life figured out , or that I don’t mess up anymore, or that I have the faith I should have to trust that you’re in control of my future too. Growing old, dying, eternity – they all still terrify me. Next week, tomorrow, two o’clock this afternoon – they’re all beyond my grasp. All I’ve got is this moment. Here goes