Dear Chief,
After a lifetime of headaches, this letter
seems so pointless. In this early morning hour, I find myself wondering what
life would have been like, had I been on schedule in coming to this world. Even
as I write these words, I realise many might call me impertinent, or even think
me unstable and at the point of turning from You. I continue to write, knowing
that You have an ear willing to listen—or rather, eyes willing to
read.
Each time my head feels like a construction
site, we both know I wish to know why these things occur. I’ve been told from
my cradle that questioning You is improper, and I now ask pardon because I have
questioned You a lot when invisible carpenters tend to drive nails with a
passionate rhythm into my head. It would be hypocrisy to say I never
wondered—not even for the tiniest of moments—whether or not You know what
You’re up to. Merciful as You are, You do not punish me: a subordinate
questioning an officer.
Many times I curl into a ball and grit my
teeth when the cerebral carpenters are at work. You give me strength to pull
myself together, if not to stop me from really screaming my head off. You have
gently shown me Your reasons, and You have been extremely patient with me when
my temper rises with each bang of a nail driven by the hammer. You never tire
of reminding me faith is all I need. You
have shown me the beauty of living a life of paradoxes, and that Your ways—though
sometimes beyond my comprehension—are always the best of everything.
I know that Your plan is more beautiful
than I can imagine, and that I owe You more than I will ever know.
Forever Grateful,
The
Scribbler
21 August 2014
