Dear Heavenly Father,
You said you love me this much, with your eyes kind, smile beaming, and arms spread wide, touching both sides of the universe. I am yours. Parents don’t place conditions on loving their own; I am a mother, I know.
They call you a liar, your other children. They say you only love me if. These markings you placed upon my heart, my mind, my body, you didn’t assign conditions to. You gave me the grace, or arguable misfortune, of making them invisible. I only revealed what I chose to, when I was ready to let others see your imperfectly perfect creation of me.
So many still aren’t ready, Father. They’re suffering quietly with invisible markings. Buried under the heaviness of their brothers and sisters labels. They believe you only love them if. I used to believe that too.
You didn’t ask about my sexuality when you professed your love to me. You didn’t have to. You know me best; you made me. But your children apply hate labels to your perfect craftsmanship of me. My “gayness is sin”. My “mental illness is weakness”. Labels attempting to minimize my worth because you didn’t make me like them.
They call you God, The Creator, Buddha, Yahweh, Allah, Krishna, The Universe, Brahman, Abba. No matter what name they call you by, how big they write it on their buildings, what font they use to display it, or how loud or softly they speak it inside their walls, I refuse to believe them.
I believe you, Abba.
I’ve seen you, in the sweaty eyes of my patient’s husband; a father who just lost his baby. I’ve felt you, just as the guilt of being unable to save his baby, welled up to the surface of my eyes and drip dropped out the corners, and he reached his shaking hand out and rested it on my shoulder. I’ve heard you, when he spoke these words through his own grief to move mine,
“It is okay. In our religion we believe, with great calamities comes great ease. Our ease is coming. It is a guarantee.”
Our ease is coming. I won’t listen to anything less. No longer am I too scared or ashamed to spread my arms wide, straining the tippy tops of my fingers, and say,
“He loves me this much.”