The hardest letter I've ever written.

Dear friend, Maybe you should know. I love you beyond words. There is so much of my story that I owe to you. I'm sure you've never thought about it. Or considered it. But knowing you changed me. Maybe you should know. I love being in your orbit. I'm always glad to see you. I think about you often, and pray for you occasionally. Maybe you should know. Seeing you again scares me. Because I need to ask your forgiveness. Once upon a time, in a land called Wisconsin, I invited you along for a journey full of grand promises and hopeful delusions. And I always felt bad about that. But that isn't the real problem. At this point, I can tell you the best thing that hot mess could do was fail. The bigger problem, is that there was a lot more to the story. These days, when I tell my story, I usually begin in Wisconsin. After the "heart event" and the "stroke event". Because in those days in the hospital, when I was laying flat on my back, I decided that some changes needed to be made. What I wanted, I decided, was to be more like you. Not a more beautiful piece of man-flesh. Or the Voice. But the truthfulness. What I wanted, I thought, what I craved, was to be the most truthful guy in the room. And the first conclusion that I came to was that I was not a Christ follower. I knew a lot about the guy I was working for. But I'm not sure if I ever really met him. Did you ever wonder why I was so quick to rush you out of the burning building? Oh, it was out of guilt. But not because the mission plant had failed. The real guilt was that I'd asked you to be led by a liar. My time in the trucking business was, I believed, a wonderful fit. I stepped into a company of 1500 employees where I could say anything, as long it was true. truth as I knew it then was passion and power and freedom. I could launch any amount of flaming arrows into a crowded space, and walk away, saying "well, it's true." And all that time, for more than fifteen years, I'd have told anyone who asked, that I wasn't a Christ follower. Thankfully, perhaps, no one asked. I was outside of the kingdom. Lost. I was convinced the door was shut. And I was OK with that. Resigned. So I lived for me, and went where I wanted and did what I wanted. I broke every commandment in the book. And not in a high bar, "if there's hate in your heart" sort of way. Strangely, during those years. I was strangely compelled by one particular group-- humble Christ followers, who didn't know or believe in their own value or worth. They seemed to pop up everywhere. We'd sit down, over a beer or a soda, and we'd have conversations that seemed eerily similar. "precious and important" "yeah, but if you only knew." "fearfully and wonderfully made." "I know that it says that. If I'm honest, I don't really believe that." "Loved and lovable." "Nope." I was always careful in my communication. "Your God says..." "the dusty old book at my house, if I remember correctly, seems to say..." Maybe I even did some good. God knows. Then things began to change. I began to wake up. I met with a pastor who'd just been fired. His life was in chaos. His church had abandoned him. He had nothing left, or so he thought. And I was there because I knew he needed some love. And because he was broke. I still remember how I proudly gave him $200, told him to take out his wife and kids, and remember what was permanent. And then he asked about me. "What about you and Jesus?" And I was honest. And I remember him saying, "I think you might be wrong. I'm not sure the door is shut." He didn't push. He just loved me back. And I thought at the time how strange it was, and I went on. Then my son was going to get married. And he asked me to do the message. And because I wanted to live with my version of integrity, I said no. Multiple times. But because my son was, well, himself, he kept asking. Then a friend of mine called me up, and said hey, I talked to your son, and you're doing the message." And she terrified me. So I caved. Still I was trying to do it with integrity. Do you remember I asked you and your wife for a two minute blurb on the secret to a great marriage?" I asked a lot of couples. Because I didn't want to lie. I didn't want to claim a great faith or a great marriage I didn't have. And still, once I had figured out an incredible work-around, the son still told me, "we want a sermon." So I chose a great well known marriage text. Hebrews 3. I know. But honestly. Ecclesiastes 4:12 is in the male dative case in Hebrew, so it's really only appropriate for a certain group of weddings.... Anyway, something happened on the way to the wedding. Somewhere along the line, I believed. And things have been different since I woke up. Remember how we used to joke that I got 0,0, and 1 on prayer, mercy, and giving on my spiritual gifts test, but we both knew the score was incredibly accurate. Strangely, those are the only things that matter to me now. Twice now, I've tried to work up the courage to tell you, honestly, the truth. Twice in twenty years. I'm not, it turns out, a self starter. Honesty is a lot more important to me than truths, these days, except for the One Truth. Honesty seems, for me, to be truth wrapped in flesh and spoken in love. And that's different. A lot is so much different these days. I love you, brother, if I can still call you that. Or maybe truly call you that for the first time. I ask for the gift of your forgiveness. But if now is not the time, then know that you're worth waiting for, and I believe and trust my God plays the long game. I am certainly evidence of that. Thus spake, me. In Christ. Honestly.