Hey Jesus,

You know I whispered and shouted and repeated these words one thousand times and still they’re much too small, much too insignificant, completely unworthy of what You deserve. But thank you.

Thank you one million times over. For the way grass feels in my hands and between my toes. For the ability to recognize a person by their laughter, for good books, and for sun showers.

But today I’m here again to say . You must have laughed so hard while wiping the tears from my eyes six years ago. You already knew. You knew every single thing that would happen in those in between years, You knew the pages that had to be turned, and You knew the story wasn’t over even when we saw “the end” written out. Who am I to try to write my story in pencil when You use ink, You who doesn’t make mistakes? Thank You for the chapters in between – they made us who we are. Thank You for giving me my miracle and for allowing me to live – and write – this story that you’ve given. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

May I never try to snatch the pen away. May these words serve as another year of setting a pillar, . You have done a good, good work – not because You had to, but because You chose to. Thank you.


We’re best friends now.

Those four words are really simple, really small, and speaking them will only take you a second or two. But it took endless hours of conversations, weeks of working through and choosing to fight for instead of be against. It took long, hard work.

It was worth every second.

He didn’t have to write our stories this way. God didn’t have to mend what was broken or heal the wounds inside.

But He did.

It’s still true, those words I’ve clung to for years: God would still be God whether He answered my prayer or not.

Even if nothing changed about my situation, nothing about my view of God would change.

I believe He would have been just as good and holy and true and deserving of all praise no matter what happened – but He wasn’t done writing. The story wasn’t over just yet.

He went and wrote , did a new thing, and six years later I can tell you with every ounce my person that May 26th has long been my least favorite day of the year… but not any more.

One year it meant heart break. The next I stood over my mentor’s kitchen sink weeping as I scrubbed dishes clean. Another found me curled up in a blanket in my room.

They’ve all been different, these May 26ths. One year it rolled around and I found that all was okay. I was okay. Life was okay. All was well. But that didn’t stop me from praying because my gosh I couldn’t let it go. Something inside tugged on me every time I wanted to give up hope, every time I didn’t think I could hold on another year, month, week, day.

Six years is a long time.

But a lot can happen in six years.

It’s May 26th again. We broke apart on a Tuesday and the calendar has circled back around.

We’re best friends now.

I didn’t know it that first May 26th – or the subsequent ones that followed – but God had already given me my miracle.

He doesn’t waste the in between and nothing – hear me say it, nothing – is impossible for God.

Your wildest hopes are not too far-fetched, your biggest dreams are not too ridiculous. He is the God of immeasurably more, the God of new things, the God of umpteenth chances and incredible plans. And He loves you.

So no, nothing is impossible.

Don’t you dare give up hope. Don’t you for one second stop fighting for love and pursuing peace. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

Your miracle could be on the way.

Don’t stop.

[For last year’s May 26th, I wrote a different sort of letter. ]

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