Page 138 of It's Always Been You
To my dismay, the letter is slightly damp from this afternoon’s rain storm. Gingerly, I set it down on the heater and lower myself onto the edge of the bed to stare at it. I’ve been tempted to read it at least a thousand times, but I could never bring myself to do it. Brandon told me not to read it until the year he wanted us to spend “apart” was up, and it’s been up for a few weeks now. Still, every time I went to tear into the envelope, something stopped me.
And this time is no exception.
“Lord,” I whisper. “What’s going on?” I take a deep breath, giving room for the Holy Spirit to speak and provide some clarity—or maybe even a little bit of direction.
But He’s quiet.
Sighing, I change into a pair of warm, dry jeans, a cozy oversized sweater, and my favorite pair of combat boots. Then I throw on the rain coat I should have been wearing this afternoon, grab my brolly, and head to Notre-Dame Cathedral for Sunday evening mass.
I’m awestruck when I enter the cathedral and catalogue all its incredible details for the first time. The soaring vaulted ceiling, the smooth stone arches, the tiled marble floor. The vibrant stained-glass windows and altar with its marble Pietà of the Virgin Mary and Jesus—and behind it, an elegant gold cross. Thanks to the recent restorations, the cathedral’s interior is strikingly modern compared to its gothic facade.
I’m not Catholic by any stretch of the imagination, but I make the sign of the cross out of respect and take a seat at the back of the cathedral. Most of the mass is conducted in Latin, so I understand nothing, but I still appreciate the experience.
When the service is over, I remain seated in the pew for a few extra minutes, staring at Jesus’ body in the marble Pietà and just thinking. Reflecting. Praying.
All this time, I assumed Jesus was ignoring my prayers because He didn’t care about me. It turns out that Brandon was right; Jesus was pursuing arelationshipwith me. Relationships are two-way streets; and the best ones have a firm foundation of solid communication. And Jesus was never going to force me to spend time with Him. So how could I have ever expected tohearfrom Him without sitting down to chat with Him regularly?
I’ll admit that at first, communicating with Jesus felt like pulling teeth. Mostly because I didn’t knowhowto talk to Him.But that went away with time. With patience. With every verse read, every prayer uttered. That old juvenile expectation to hear an audible voice speaking from the sky, coming from a God who grants my every wish, is long gone. I now have a right understanding of what prayer is—communion with a God who loves me more than any earthly parent or human man ever could.
Now, abiding in Jesus feels like rest—like respite for my soul. But I had no idea, before trusting in His name, just how much I was hanging on by a thread. Now, clinging to the hem of His garment, I am made well.
As I gaze at Jesus’ face, I realize with a rush of emotion and gratitude that He has always been there, rooting for me. Fighting for me. Pursuing me. I’m His beloved child. Ibelongto Him. I always have, and I always will.
No one could ever love me like He loves me.
It’s always been You, Jesus. You’ve always been here. You love me unconditionally, and You will never leave me. Never forsake me. I know that now.
Something clicks in my mind like I’ve just entered the correct combination. Is this what He has been trying to help me understand? The sudden urge to read Brandon’s letter tells me yes. Yes, it is. Automatically, I reach for my bag—only to realize with an intense pang of annoyance that I left it on the heater in the hotel room.
Rain slashes around me as I run down the street, back toward my hotel. I clip a few shoulders along the way, and I’m grumbled at in moody-sounding French, but I don’t care.
I’m ready to be Brandon’s, yes—but I belong to Jesus, first and foremost. I am His, and He is mine. No relationship should ever come before my relationship with Him. No earthly relationship could ever come close to fulfilling me in the way my relationship with my heavenly Father does. No one’s love could ever compare. Not the love of my parents, or Brandon, or anyone else.
While there may be some days where I don’t feel God’s love, don’t hear His voice, don’t understand what He’s doing or why, I can rest assured that He knew me before the foundation of the world, and Hechoseme to be His beloved. He had a loving, intimate knowledge of me before I was a twinkle in my mother’s eye, before the Earth was even formed. He set His sights on me and pursued me with the intention of, one day, conforming me to the image of His beloved Son, Jesus Christ. I still can’t fully wrap my head around that.
The bewildered receptionist watches me squeak across the lobby, dragging rain puddles onto the tiled floor. Muttering an apology, I screech around the corner and storm up three flights of stairs to my floor. Fumbling with my key card, I struggle to get the door open. I don’t bother shutting it behind me.Instead, I race toward the heater, desperate to ensure the letter hasn’t combusted into flames.
It’s not there.
Frantic now, I collapse to my knees and feel around on the floor, only to discover it’s wedged between the radiator and the wall. Relieved it’s not burned to a crisp, I fish it out and carefully undo the damp seal. My heartbeat thumps in my ears as I drop down onto the bed, remove the letter, and unfold it.
I take a deep breath and begin reading.
Dear Spitfire,
I don’t know if you will ever read this, but I suppose that makes it easier to write. I hope this letter brings you the closure you deserve, even if you decide that you’d like something different. I will understand and respect your decision.
But you should know . . . that you, sweet girl, entered my heart like a slow leak—subtly, slowly, unbeknownst to me. When I finally noticed and looked down, I was already sinking. Drowning.
The paper vibrates in my hands. I take a deep, stabilizing breath.
Where do I even begin? With a confession, I suppose. It was your wedding day. When I saw you in that gown . . . Evie, you took my breath away. I saw you for the very first time—saw you as the woman you had become, not the girl you once were.
And I loved every inch of you, even then.
Before that, you were like a kid sister to me—obnoxious, annoying, but oh so lovable. And oh how I loved you. From the very beginning. From the moment we met, we had a very unique bond. No one understood it. Not even me. But neither did I question it; rather, I considered it an honor to be your favorite person. Because you are special, Evie, and I’ve always known that—even before I loved you in any kind of romantic sense. You have always been so full of love and joy and life. You have such a beautiful, caring heart, sweetheart. It’s not cold and black the way you like to joke that it is. It’s as blue and as deep as the ocean, and I could spend the rest of my life exploring its depths.
But your parents’ divorce changed you. Stole something precious from you. It left you angry, detached, and melancholy. You became unrecognizable. That yappy, happy, imaginative little girl that I once knew was suddenly gone. No one knew how to help you. But for years, I missed her. We all did.
