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Dear Son,

You are mine. You are your father's too. But you lived in me for nine months and I nursed you for a year. You and I are connected in a way unlike any other.

I get you. I see your fear. I feel your anger at the injustice in the world. How everyone knows what's going on but you're not allowed to be a part of it. How decisions are made but you are not allowed to make any decisions. I see your grasping at control just to have something to hold onto.

I am the same way.

My father, my heavenly father, loves me. He hasn't let me stay in my anger, my fear, or my confusion. He has pushed me out and let me feel the depth of his grace. When I am my most unlovable he draws me near and says, "Come to me." When I am angry and ugly he whispers ever so quietly, "I love you." Sometimes it is easier to listen to a quiet word than to a clanging booming drum. When I believe all kinds of lies about myself, that I am fat and stupid and worthless and a waste of time, he reminds me that I am none of these things. He pursues me at my leprousness, when it feels like no one on earth will pursue me.

As your mother, I have been called to be like Him to you. You don't deserve it based on your behavior or your choices. My flesh wants to turn my back and close off my heart. But His kingdom makes no sense in our minds. His kingdom is not based on our making the right choices. His kingdom is based on Him.

His grace. His goodness. His love.

I hope my actions toward you can be a picture for you of His love for you.

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