This is a letter to you. You know who you are. Or maybe you don’t. Let me tell you.
You think I’m a goody two shoes. My life is perfect, my family is perfect, my faith is perfect.
I didn’t ask for this. I’m not sure how it ended up like this.
You think I’m happy and have it easy, so you shrugged it off when Grandpa died like I could handle anything. But a little part of me is screaming for you to notice that my life ISN’T perfect. It’s a battle. It’s a war. I know enough to know the right thing but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.
Calling me perfect hurt. You did it once, only once, but I’ll remember it forever. I’m far from perfect. I wish you knew how much I cry outwardly and inwardly because you guys can laugh, read memes, make jokes that I can’t. How can you do the things you do and then say you love Jesus, the man who died and bore all suffering because He loved?
Tonight Daniel said that the struggle to be an heir in Romans chapter 8 is a struggle between your will and your spirit, between the world and God. I believe that. I live my life as a battle and I won’t laugh at what you laugh at because I want the Lord. But don’t judge me or call me perfect. I cry because I choose you over God sometimes. I laugh at Google photos chats when I should be doing Bible reading. No. I’m not perfect. I’m different. You know, when someone says they’re fine, that doesn’t mean they are.
Only Joseph cared when a volleyball hit me in the face. In the face. She laughed and said “Imagine if that was a basketball going 10 times faster.” I don’t remember the others responding at all.
You invite me while huddling tighter. It hurts because I’m not perfect. Did you know that even a perfect life won’t satisfy your soul? In fact, ones soul seems more satisfied with a broken life, or a life filled with TV or a life where you think you decide, where you choose what happens. And yet I’m trying to deny my thirsty, parched soul.
I fell. I actually hurt. And you walked off arm in arm. Only one helped me. And you said it would change. For a few short hours it did, then it didn’t. Only she, the one who helped, actually changes when she says she will. I’ll never forget you walking off arm in arm or playing music without me while I’m right there; you won’t stop talking about things I don’t understand things I don’t know. You ignored my effort and loved her lazy, her wasting time, her having fun. Maybe I would stop stressing, working, wondering if someone besides my own flesh and blood cared. I finally figured out how different I am. I don’t get social cues. I forget. I can’t focus. I come across as lazy, but over passionate. I won’t shut up. You want me to shut up. Don’t you? Or will you give me a sign you actually hear me? Or will I sit here writing sad letters wishing I was laughing with you? Wishing I was normal something a little like you,
but my own? I know who I am but I don’t like it. I don’t want to be the world on the outside, Jesus on the inside except when I’m in the church, except when I’m with you.
You don’t see the mess I am because I- I “pursue.” Or it looks like that. And then I fall. I sleep. I fall behind. I say the wrong thing. Get mad. Hurt for no reason. And who do I tell? You? You don’t care. Who do I tell?
My friends who hurt worse? People who have never seen my face?