A love letter about returning to writing—and learning to begin again.
Dear Abba,
Thank You.
I can never stop thanking You for everything You’ve given me and done for me, so I will be specific this time.
Thank You for allowing me to write again. Actually, thank You for even pushing me to write again.
I’ve always wanted to write — and You know that. I loved weaving words into stories, and I had done it beautifully before. I loved it.
But somewhere along the way, I started to realize I was mostly writing for myself. I got the praise, I felt the rush of excitement, but there was always something missing. And slowly, guilt crept in. I was not doing it for You. I had become a contributor to the distraction of Your children — writing about fantasies and things I knew You would not approve of. Some of what I wrote felt disconnected from what I believed mattered the most — You.
I let the dream go, thinking, “I am not that talented,” and “I am not glorifying God with this.” I thought I was better off being someone else’s employee, earning enough, and trying to redefine stability in my own terms apart from Yours (and sure enough, I failed).
But I couldn’t quite silence the desire to write.
Whenever I read someone’s work, I would think to myself, “I can do this, too…” And others would tell me the same thing. But when I tried again, I would fall short of what I imagined.
Even now, I still think I am not doing enough.
But this time, it’s okay.
Because I am doing this for You.
And You are the God who is not bothered by my imperfection. You are not like a teacher ready to mark my paper in red. You are a loving Father, reading my chaotic love letter — a handmade Father’s Day card filled with doodles — with a proud smile on Your face, thinking, “Finally, she did it.”
At the end of this year’s Vacation Bible School, I told the kids to get paper, pencils, and crayons and make cards or write letters to their teachers and facilitators — whom they treated as big brothers and sisters. Some would go back to the table asking for another sheet, and I would tell them how their imperfections and mistakes make their work better and more personal.
I had a perfect little speech for the little ones, and now my own words echo inside my head, and I needed to hear my own words.
I just have to start. Not perfectly. Just honestly.
I just have to write the first letters, the first words, the first entry.
I just need to obey.
I need to fight this spirit of delay — this hesitation, this resistance to beginning.
I must fight for this calling You placed in me.
When the thought of starting a blog came into my mind, I asked You, “Why would You even allow me to do this?”
And out of nowhere, Your still small voice answered, “Because I did the same for you.”
My mind was blown. Yes, You did.
That’s why I go to the Bible when I need to hear from You — to remember what You’ve already spoken.
And You know I do not intend to replace Your Word, but to lead Your little ones back to it. To help them know and remember that You are with us every day. And that I must write down as many experiences as I can so they are not lost in memory — especially those that have not been passed down through stories.
Even I would love to have a letter from Mamala if there is anything left. I would even treasure an old paper with her handwriting on it.
So I will write.
I will write the stories You have placed in me so I can share them with others.
I will write the answers You gave to my questions.
I will write the revelations You’ve given me.
I will write how the kids taught me to be a mother.
I will write about joy, pain, love, flowers, gardens, and the things we always talk about.
This is now our garden, Abba. A place where I can walk with You in the cool of the day. I will plant the seeds and cuttings I’ve collected with You along the way. And now I am opening it so others can join our little tea party, especially the ones You Yourself will lead.
Thank You, Abba. You are so faithful. Thank You for believing I can do this, even when I struggle to believe it myself.
You’re the best.