#86: i can't do it on my own

Below you'll find a letter that my father wrote to his older sister, Melinda (who has just discovered that she has stage two melanoma, an aggressive form of skin cancer and while we're waiting to see whether the cancer has spread further, she's setting a date with doctors to have her big toe amputated.) I guess my mom was struck by the humble compassion in his letter too, since she sent it out in an email for us all to read.

sweet melinda,

what a horrible reality you've suddenly had to face.  we always know that fearful and terrible things happen in life, but when they show up in our very own everyday, it's a shock.  i know your world is being rocked and you are struggling to stay calm and be brave.  i am completely without courage and have always been marked by fear and insecurity. so i've always found the Lord to be the only answer for every little (or big) thing because i know i don't have it in me. 

last year I was reading a book about prayer, and something in particular from that book has really stayed with me.  the writer was calling attention to God being our father.  think of your own little child coming to you for help, and how you treat them.  all that matters to you as their parent is that they belong to you and that you are in a position to help them.  you don't care what tone of voice they use, what words come out of their mouth.  you just take them into your arms and console and care for them.  

this is how God, our heavenly father is toward us.  this is the essence of the gospel, that we are no longer cosmic orphans. we have a perfect father who can do anything.  he will never forsake us or fail us or reject us.  there really is no other permanent comfort.  go right to him and blubber uncontrollably. he loves you. he will take care of you.  he will solve all your problems.  what could possibly be better? we will also be talking to him about you, and asking him to really show up for you in a profound and reassuring way. 

we love you,

damien

I have no surgeries coming up, but sometime mid Thursday of next week, I'll be pushing past Colorado's border to start an internship in the yet-unknown city of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania sans Eric, friends, a place of my own and certainty in my near future.

In the midst of all things (tiny little new jobs and great big scary surgeries) this can be our bravery. We are no longer cosmic orphans. We are allowed the great, luxurious freedom of throwing our hysterical, sobbing pleas for comfort onto the lap of a sympathetic heavenly father.