I am afraid of having a daughter: I am afraid that you would become too much like me.
To me as a teenager, God was nothing but an afterthought. He was the “therefore” to the paragraphs I could not finish. He was the perfect camouflage in every situation; the perfect excuse; the perfect justification.
At one point, after I had shared with Joseph my struggles about a certain someone and how I kept on trying to surrender him to the Lord, he strongly encouraged me to write about “how to not fall with feelings.”
I started to ask myself, Is that all it is about? To keep on wanting and waiting for something new, different, and more each time? To keep on wanting relief from each moment of life that has become humdrum? Will nothing ever be enough?
As I considered these things, a thought came to me: this must be why sometimes, the best and loveliest person that we know of dies young. God must be taking her out before she even gets soiled by the cares of the world, and while she is at her most beautiful. God must be taking her out because He says, “She is too beautiful, I must preserve her.”
I wanted something intense, something raw, something passionate and dramatic, something that was so good it exceeded all logical possibility. In short, I wanted something that did not exist. Or so I thought.
“But you don’t understand! He’s perfect! I know that one day, he could become a Christian, too! Maybe God is using me so he can get saved” Yeah, sure.
The sixty-something-year-old man comes in to answer his ringing phone, which he had left on the receptionist’s desk. Hmm, an iPhone 4, I observed.
He sees me standing there on the phone. Well, waiting for someone to pick up.
“Oh, are you calling me?” he teases, and he’s got an accent.
Dear little girl, You were exactly seven months old on the 17th of March, and I love you.
Here’s the longer version of the card I gave you.