For several months now I have been writing a series of letters. Seven in total. Each were written honestly and from my heart. Each page is filled with the deep longings of my heart; my fears, my hopes, my dreams. And not once did I start a letter with a name. Until recently I had no idea who these letters were meant for. After the seventh and final letter, I placed them all in a box on my nightstand. They have been there for weeks. Last night I realized that they were never intended to be read, only written.
So in the early hours of this morning, I took the letters and I burned them. But first I wrote a name on the top of each page. A name of the person I believe they were always intended for. But this person no longer holds a significant place in my life. They don’t get to hear the deep words from my heart. It would be pointless to send the letters now.
The burning of the pages was a cleansing time for me. I let go of the words I had written. I trusted that God knows my heart and knows not only the road I was just on but the road before me. When the last letter was burned I looked down and saw a pile of ashes on the table. My words, the desires of my heart, were now gone. All that was left was a small pile of ashes. I cried, but it wasn’t sadness I felt. It was freedom. I’m now free to dream in a new way. I’m free to trust those around me that I hold close in my life. This was a time of renewal. And I fell asleep early this morning grateful. Grateful for a new journey and new dreams.