You’ve simply turned your shoulders slightly to the left.

Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil;

cling to what is good.

Romans 12:9

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Dear Me,

I feel I was a little harsh in my last letter. Knowing God has never given up on you makes me think I shouldn’t do the same. I know how this ends. I know what He’s capable of.

But still, isn’t that typical of me? Hardening my heart towards something that needs to be loved. You’ve been loved all your life. Probably unfairly so. And yet you hold tightly fisted to each ounce of it like dirty coins.

When did love become a bargaining chip?

It didn’t start with a boy because there’s always a heart behind your motive. And your heart was there the moment God blinked it into your mother’s womb. So, it began with said heart and your inability to conquer its deceitfulness.

But maybe boys can’t be ousted completely.

There’s Gregory who’s kissed you hard on the back of your head, one of the reasons you bemoan not having eyes in the back of it or a fist that can throw punches from that angle. There’s Alex who’s all elbows and whose bones make you think of twigs waiting to be snapped. There are crushes years later, boys who probably aren’t as dapper as your twelve-year-old mind insinuates, but there’s no real test in any of this. It’s merely an imaginative exercise that never grows stale.

As you grow older, you blend your brush in both love and lust. There’s the tightly wound good girl in you holding things together, but then there’s the “bad” girl—the version of yourself that you won’t recognize as normally human until years later. And she? She’s untying all the knots you’ve perfectly tied.

You’re no longer willing to throw those wayward punches.

You are living a sixteen-year-old tragedy. You’ve become depressed, a term that isn’t thrown around like it is today, so you keep it secret, crushed beneath the mattress. You still brush your teeth and hair and wear your uniform skirt the exact right length above your knees because the good girl wills it so. But eventually there comes another boy. There’s eating and drinking, imbibing life, watching him steal cutlery at the Chinese restaurant, heads on shoulder, head against the car window, blink-blink-blinking away real time with the heart God’s set inside you.

There are pieces of yourself scattered everywhere in floorboard of his car, and you go to gather them but come up empty handed. Why not just let them sit and be for a while?

Recently, I’ve learned that “sin” means missing the mark. It refers to an old archery term and how better it describes everything we’re not than a laundry list of “never getting it right.” You’ve simply turned your shoulders slightly to the left. But one day, God will set you straight (in more ways than one).

But at the time it’s hard to be set straight.

So goodbye, heart, and hello, dirty coins. They’ve nearly melted in your palm. And you try your best only to pay for the things you’re willing to return.

But where’s the bargain in that?

Talk soon,

Ericka