An open letter to my childhood mentors...
***Disclaimer: I realize that the vast majority of people who read this blog are not being addressed in this post. However, something is brewing in my soul and I believe this reflection is the first drop of that something. I hope and pray it will provide insight into my continued transformation in Christ, as unusual as these words might seem.***
My dear childhood mentors,
Remember when we talked all the time? I do, but I'm trying to forget.
That's not meant to be an insult, by any means. I just know who I was back then, and I'm sorry. Lately my heart has been aching, and I have started to realize it is because I am remembering who I used to be. From the time I was 12 up through high school graduation, three of you in particular stuck with me (although I wasn't really giving you much of a choice in the matter, was I?).
You each shaped a different part of who I am today; I didn't really believe that I was worth loving, and you each loved me in some way despite my doubts and stubborn declarations. Together, you watched me grow from a shy 12 to an angry 14, and separately you nudged me towards kindness to myself. Sweet 16 was everything but the kitchen counter because adolescent me couldn't leave anything alone and I needed more space than the sink provided to spread out my mess of a life. I guess 18 was better, but by then we had dealt with six years of...well...me.
Gentle admonitions didn't quite reveal to me how much my OCD was controlling the way I treated each one of you, but you all tried to teach me anyway. Whether it was my failure to hold onto friends because I scared them away with the intensity of my attention or my fixated loyalty to each one of you, my teenage self let obsessions rule everything I did. No wonder I wanted to study writing in college; when I was 13, I wrote letters to particular people in my life in a journal...every day. There's a little spot in the back of my neck that tingles with embarrassment at the cringey content of those journals. Last year I burned the last of those notebooks...at least, I hope it was the last.
And now that I'm 24 and I hardly see each one of you at all, I have plenty of time to reflect on how I have changed, how you have had to watch those changes from afar, and how I wish I could have processed those changes with each of you face to face. I claimed all of you as my mentors with great pride and love...and I would be doing you a disservice if I said that I don't still love you all very deeply. That love has matured and become far healthier than it ever could have been in my teenage years, but it has grown in depth just the same.
This blog has hosted my thoughts for eight years now. I could have moved on to a different platform at some point, but part of me clings to this URL for the sake of reminding myself of the growth I have experienced throughout the time I have written here. It's a public space for sometimes private musings; I am at peace with this knowledge. So with eight years under my belt, please hear my words and take them as you will.
To the one of you who has stood with me the longest, who told me it was okay to cry and gave me hundreds of hugs during my worst moments:
Your prayers for my success in building friendships and keeping them were answered when I finally established a group that I have kept since I was a sophomore in college. You told me to be open minded and to listen to people with different opinions than me. I doubt you hoped for my political views to shift as a result of me taking that advice, but I know I am a kinder, more compassionate person because of that wisdom. At Christmas, we talked about finding a church home and I'm so thankful for your prayers as I struggled to fit somewhere during college and after graduation. I love you and I can't wait to connect for real someday soon.
To the one of you who has given me the toughest love, who wasn't afraid to laugh at my stupid ideas and tell me I was capable of being someone's friend:
You told me at Easter that maturing and changing is one of the most important parts of a person's life. I often wish to sit down with you and pick your brain about topics I know we probably don't see eye to eye on anymore; your wisdom and grace for silly kids like me indicates that our conversations would be just as rich now that I'm not that shy teenager. I admire your courage in leadership and your love for the least of these. That compassion is what inspires me to do likewise. I love you and I miss your consistently selfless presence in my life.
To the one of you who has been a patient listener, who stuck with me even through the most intense days of my struggle with obsessive behavior:
First of all, how? My respect for your endurance is endless. Before I knew why my behavior was strange or uncomfortable, you kept listening to my awkward problems and stories. Thank you, I'm sorry, and I am grateful. What an example of compassionate mentorship you set for me by your continued patience with my problems. It must have been purely by the grace of Jesus that you put up with me for six straight years. I love you and I am humbled beyond what I can describe.
My dear childhood mentors, I don't miss being a child. But I miss your guidance now.
My dear childhood mentors,
Remember when we talked all the time? I do, but I'm trying to forget.
That's not meant to be an insult, by any means. I just know who I was back then, and I'm sorry. Lately my heart has been aching, and I have started to realize it is because I am remembering who I used to be. From the time I was 12 up through high school graduation, three of you in particular stuck with me (although I wasn't really giving you much of a choice in the matter, was I?).
You each shaped a different part of who I am today; I didn't really believe that I was worth loving, and you each loved me in some way despite my doubts and stubborn declarations. Together, you watched me grow from a shy 12 to an angry 14, and separately you nudged me towards kindness to myself. Sweet 16 was everything but the kitchen counter because adolescent me couldn't leave anything alone and I needed more space than the sink provided to spread out my mess of a life. I guess 18 was better, but by then we had dealt with six years of...well...me.
Gentle admonitions didn't quite reveal to me how much my OCD was controlling the way I treated each one of you, but you all tried to teach me anyway. Whether it was my failure to hold onto friends because I scared them away with the intensity of my attention or my fixated loyalty to each one of you, my teenage self let obsessions rule everything I did. No wonder I wanted to study writing in college; when I was 13, I wrote letters to particular people in my life in a journal...every day. There's a little spot in the back of my neck that tingles with embarrassment at the cringey content of those journals. Last year I burned the last of those notebooks...at least, I hope it was the last.
And now that I'm 24 and I hardly see each one of you at all, I have plenty of time to reflect on how I have changed, how you have had to watch those changes from afar, and how I wish I could have processed those changes with each of you face to face. I claimed all of you as my mentors with great pride and love...and I would be doing you a disservice if I said that I don't still love you all very deeply. That love has matured and become far healthier than it ever could have been in my teenage years, but it has grown in depth just the same.
This blog has hosted my thoughts for eight years now. I could have moved on to a different platform at some point, but part of me clings to this URL for the sake of reminding myself of the growth I have experienced throughout the time I have written here. It's a public space for sometimes private musings; I am at peace with this knowledge. So with eight years under my belt, please hear my words and take them as you will.
To the one of you who has stood with me the longest, who told me it was okay to cry and gave me hundreds of hugs during my worst moments:
Your prayers for my success in building friendships and keeping them were answered when I finally established a group that I have kept since I was a sophomore in college. You told me to be open minded and to listen to people with different opinions than me. I doubt you hoped for my political views to shift as a result of me taking that advice, but I know I am a kinder, more compassionate person because of that wisdom. At Christmas, we talked about finding a church home and I'm so thankful for your prayers as I struggled to fit somewhere during college and after graduation. I love you and I can't wait to connect for real someday soon.
To the one of you who has given me the toughest love, who wasn't afraid to laugh at my stupid ideas and tell me I was capable of being someone's friend:
You told me at Easter that maturing and changing is one of the most important parts of a person's life. I often wish to sit down with you and pick your brain about topics I know we probably don't see eye to eye on anymore; your wisdom and grace for silly kids like me indicates that our conversations would be just as rich now that I'm not that shy teenager. I admire your courage in leadership and your love for the least of these. That compassion is what inspires me to do likewise. I love you and I miss your consistently selfless presence in my life.
To the one of you who has been a patient listener, who stuck with me even through the most intense days of my struggle with obsessive behavior:
First of all, how? My respect for your endurance is endless. Before I knew why my behavior was strange or uncomfortable, you kept listening to my awkward problems and stories. Thank you, I'm sorry, and I am grateful. What an example of compassionate mentorship you set for me by your continued patience with my problems. It must have been purely by the grace of Jesus that you put up with me for six straight years. I love you and I am humbled beyond what I can describe.
My dear childhood mentors, I don't miss being a child. But I miss your guidance now.
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