It feels kind of silly writing to you. After all this time I thought by now I would have found you — or you would’ve me. Fact is, neither of us have found each other and a part of me has abandoned hope. Funny though, because there are times when I think I have already met you, but I know better, I haven’t.
You’re not like others, different.
In a crowd of a hundred, I know I would spot you immediately. You aren’t dressed in your Sunday best or ‘Jesus swag’. You’re not carrying around God’s Word or even preaching the Gospel. Shocker, I know. In our technology infused ‘Jesus culture’ — others don’t know you by name or Twitter and Facebook fame.
You’re no idol, invisible.
You don’t boast about things you’ve done or how you willingly obeyed the Lord. You’re quiet, humble. I’m attentive to small things, those things that matter less to you, more to me — to us. Those things resonate more deeply than shallow affection and fleeting trust. You admit your faults, flaws, and fear has no place in you — in us.
You’re vulnerable, sexy.
God is working in me, in you, in us. I may not meet you this year or the next, there is no timetable for an ‘us’. It’s crazy to think we’ve gotten this far without each other, but I know it’s with reason. I searched endlessly and tirelessly for you over the past few years, unintentionally, left heartbroken. You aren’t mine to be found and I’m not yours either. We’re not possessions of each other, we’re separate.
We’re patient, it’s beautiful.
When we do find each other, let’s risk it all together. I don’t know what the risk will look like or how it will feel, but it will be worth it. I know because the risk will be something simple, something we’ve both overlooked in our trying and searching.
The risk of our hearts, each other.
Question is, am I worth the risk to you, for us?