the eleventh eighteenth

dear rachel,

when you left, you took all of the capital letters.  and pretty much everything else that makes sense.  except maybe music.  and God.  you left me with those.

i miss you.  that makes sense.  but not much else does.  i mean, you would tell me what to do, right?  where to go, whom to follow, how to pursue dreams.  how to be myself.  because that’s what you always did, i think.  and, in being yourself, you made people fall in love with you.  which was great, and is still great.  it just hurts a little more now.  but what can we do?  walk around and be robots or puppets who go through motions and don’t give or love or serve?  nah.  you’d hate that.  you probably do hate that, when you see me when i’m not so strong.  i try.  for you and for Him.  and sometimes it works.  but sometimes it doesn’t.  maybe the glory is in the trying.  the continual, excruciating, little-kid trying.

you remind me to tell people that they’re beautiful.  that they mean something.  that i love that they’re here.  that i love who they are and who they are becoming, and that i joy in them.  even if i get angry sometimes.  even if i fail.  i still joy. and cry. and live.  because that’s what you would want me to do, i think.

love you, lady.  miss you like mad.



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