My Love,
You have captivated Me from the beginning; from the first time I really saw you. I’ve watched you grow into your skin and fill out the contours of your heart. I remember you in the golden light of late summer; you are barefoot, your hair is wild and free, and an innocent smile of pure bliss plays upon your lips. Never have I seen someone so free, a gypsy-girl twirling about on smooth, cool blades of grass, turning up black, rich soil. You were a soul liberated and carefree, a child discovering the world for the very first time. Every noise, every color, every sound was beautiful and when you looked inside all you saw was beauty. You were beauty.
What a great and terrible beauty this is: that the warm rays of summer light would fade to blackness and leave you crouching in the dark, wondering where the sun had gone. Perhaps this is where you finally did find yourself, perhaps that gypsy-girl was just a wish and like all dreams, she fluttered to the back of your mind. There she was buried and sunk into the depths of your heart, frozen and waiting to be brought back to life again; to breathe hope again. What horrors did you face in the darkness? What tormented your soul and drew tears from your eyes? How many times was your heart beaten down? How many times, after you had tasted the bitterness of strife, did you stand anyway?
I know you vehemently disagree with Me. I watched you, tears in your eyes, as you uttered with great force that you have been defeated. I’ve seen your scars and I have witnessed the evidence of what this life has done to you. But I can also see you standing there, hands empty, ready to receive love. Would you demolish the pillars of your pride and let my love rain down on you?
I understand. Your scars have distorted you. You are not who you used to be. Your imperfections have carved out great cavities within your heart and you feel as if you will crumble into the creature you fear. When you map out each boundary and line of each pestilent imperfection on the face of your soul, heart, and body, you have become your own tormentor. Your sickness has blinded you. Does the moon weep at night because of the craters that indent and deform her face? No. She shines; she shines brilliantly because her craters give her a face. Does she not shine more luminously against the black velvet of the night sky because darkness envelopes her? Would the stars shine a little less bright because the moon decided not to give into the despair found at the bottom of each malformed depression upon her body? Of course not; so let your light shine.
With each critical word you repeat to yourself you bury that blithesome girl. You murder your soul, and like tally marks your scars multiply. But I’m telling you that beauty has been blessed and can be found even in the deepest cuts that fester on the dark side of your moon. So stop this mindless bludgeoning and this pointless beating. You have been made perfect through your suffering. You are perfectly beautiful because of your imperfections and despite them. Let love heal your wounds and bring life to the girl you used to be, the girl you are, and the girl you will be. She’s still dancing there, just beneath your breast, swaying to the rhythm of your heart, ready to break free. I’ve seen her on occasion, one moment here and then disappearing again like the wisp of a gypsy’s skirt as she twists around the burning coals of a fire.
There is a passionate, burning fire within you, but it has scorched and singed your soul instead of shining as a beacon in the night. If you would only love yourself as I have loved you, then you could be as bright as the sun. It’s all up to you My love, there’s nothing else I can say to you. You must learn to love yourself. Don’t misunderstand Me. I am not speaking of self-indulgence, for it will only fuel the flames of that burning, consuming fire. I am speaking of putting to rest that tireless impatience that repeats, “You are not enough.” Love is patient, love is kind, and it delights in the truth. I’ve told you the truth, will you accept it? The choice is yours, My love. Will you accept Me as you have accepted yourself? Or will you finally just let love live and drive away that critical demon which torments your soul? Let your hair down, raise your arms above your head, let your body move to the music only you can hear, lift your face to the late-summer sun, and be free.
Yours Truly,
God
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