One day. Boxes of love letters were suddenly once again mine. Returned. Read, enjoyed, saved. Then returned. My tortured thoughts and deepest feelings. Handed back to me in a shoe box. My heart, in a box.
I saved that box for years. It wasn't about him, but me. The letters, they had been about me. My outlet, the only way to keep everything inside from bursting outside. I couldn't read them again. I had lived the pain and joys once and it didn't seem right to try and live them again. But throw them away? So my heart sat in a box in my closet.
Eventually, in the process of moving so much, I decided to simplify and downsize all the stuff I had been dragging through Missouri with me. Out went the letters. My heart, in a box, now in a dumpster.
I want to write love letters again. I want an overflow of feelings to come out onto paper. I want to love that much. But I am learning that my writing and my love are not about me.
"For the Lord comforts his people
and will have compassion on his afflicted ones.
the Lord has forgotten me.'