Everything is about them, not you. Unless it's about you.

Your father pointed out once that I'm often the common denominator in my own stories. This happened a long time ago, and it was a bit of meat that's still stuck in my teeth. I have so many flaws. This is true. Although knowing your father, that's not how he meant it. I think he realized something about me. I have a sincere heart for knowing what I am but a hard time walking away from it.

Isn't that like a lot of us though?

I've learned that sometimes people can't see these things in themselves. If they did, I wouldn't have to point them out and then politely be asked not to come over for Thanksgiving dinner. But alas, here we are.

Kidding though. Kind of.

I've been given grace upon grace for the blackness inside of me, and I've slowly (painfully slowly) been learning that grace can be multiplied and even given and handed out like Halloween candy (the good kind. Think Sour Patch Kids).

How long did I ignore this possibility only to hand out my own cellophane-wrapped criticisms and the bitter frustration of living inside my head but nobody else living there too? How hard to communicate the soft parts of my heart, how sorry I am for all of us, and knowing there's not much I can do about anything but type words on a page.

These aren't the things thirteen-year-olds can admire like a brand-new pair of Lululemon leggings. They're the things that most people can't admire. But here you are with a bag full of all the sad things I've put into it over the years.

I guess all of this is to say that you'll one day be the common denominator, too, and maybe give out the better thing–God's grace to those who haven't realized this in themselves.