Maybe one day you can walk barefoot without getting self-conscious.

I have given them your word and the world has hated them,

for they are not of the world any more than

I am of the world.

John 17:14

Dear Me,

Seeds sit under your skin, threatening to break earth and grow. There’s a woman who confounds you. She’s kind and gives you warm hugs, and as much as you want to make fun of everything she is, you can’t.

She is water on dry land.

You don’t speak until years later about the things Jane taught you. That a hug is more than a hug. It’s an invitation to release your heartache like deep breath over a shoulder. That connection doesn’t always have to be the butt of a joke.

You aren’t a hugger. You don’t know what it’s like to have pure, unadulterated joy tap from your veins. You have moments of happiness wrapped in your own selfish wants. You have peeks and glimpses of a stroked ego (is that a size zero I see after having a baby?) and the pride that comes when people realize that girl, you can write.

But snug jeans don’t hug like Jane and ink on paper has never looked at you like you were worth getting to know.

You can’t even smell your own loneliness because it’s the scent that’s soaked through the curtains and carpets for so long now that everything is yellowed with heartache. And when everything looks the same, it’s always hard to spot what’s different until it’s right there in front of you.

Like Jane.

Maybe one day you’ll be a good mom like Jane. Maybe one day you won’t have to drink another drop to forget how tightly wound you are or the demons that scream inside your skin, threatening to devour those seeds. Maybe one day you’ll hug with reckless abandon and have friends who don’t care what brand of car you drive or when you last colored your hair.

Maybe one day you can walk barefoot without getting self-conscious.

Because Jane doesn’t live like all the world is looking into her, a mere thought to be absorbed. She lives like she’s not of this world but merely walking in it. And even though you spy the bits and pieces of her that point directly to Jesus, you ignore the root and go directly for the fruit of her.

All you want are the things that come with utter submission without having to submit. But just wait.

There’s still time.

Talk soon,

Ericka