Skip to main content

THE LETTER



I had a dream the other night that felt different from most dreams, the kind that usually dissolve before your feet hit the floor and leave you with nothing but a strange feeling and maybe a vague memory of being somewhere that made absolutely no sense.

This one stayed.

I was somewhere familiar, although I could not tell you where. It felt a little like a church, a little like the house I grew up in, and a little like someplace I had never been before. There was warm light coming through a window, and everything was quiet in that way a place can be quiet without feeling empty.

On a small wooden table was an envelope with my name on it.

Michael.

Not Mike. Just Michael, written in handwriting I somehow recognized even though I had never seen it before.

I knew who it was from.

My guardian angel.

Apparently, mine has stationery.

I opened the envelope, and inside was a single piece of paper. I expected something grand, I suppose, some explanation of why certain things had happened, what was coming next, or perhaps a detailed accounting of the many times he had kept me from doing something even stupider than the thing I was already doing.

Instead, the letter was short…

Michael, keep going.

Stay close to the Church. Keep doing the work you are doing there, even when you wonder whether it matters as much as the work you used to do.

Keep giving rosaries away. Give them to people you know and especially to people you do not. Tell them they do not have to understand everything before they begin praying. Neither did you.

And there is one more thing.

You have spent enough time returning to the worst things you have done, replaying them as though remembering them long enough might somehow change them. It will not.

Learn to forgive yourself.

God already has.

You are allowed to keep walking…

I read the last line over and over until the words seemed to blur into the light coming through the window.

Then I woke up.

The room was dark, the letter was gone, and for a few seconds I actually looked beside the bed for it.

There was nothing there.

But the words were.

Maybe it was only a dream.

I do not know.

I just know that later that day, I put another rosary in my pocket.

Just in case somebody needed it.

Maybe me most of all. 📿

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Wooden Tulips

  Wooden Tulips T he first time I was ever really afraid- the kind of afraid that makes your body cold from the inside out- was the night Sadie was born. She was supposed to come on Valentine’s Day. Of course she didn’t. Sadie and Erin are both stubborn, so naturally she showed up early. I remember kissing Erin’s forehead, paper hearts taped to the hospital window, me rehearsing the one job I’d been assigned: cut the cord. I was ready to nail it. Dad of the Year. Opening scene. Cue applause. And then- she was here. Tiny cries, a flurry of nurses, scissors in my hand, cord cut, done. Erin was drifting in and out from the C-section meds, crying, laughing, floating. I was waiting to hold our baby. Our brand-new everything. And then a nurse leaned in. Whispered. “I’m sorry. I think your baby has Down Syndrome.” That was the first thing anyone said about my daughter. Not “She’s beautiful.” Not “Congratulations.” Just: I’m sorry. I didn’t even know what that meant yet. How could she k...
3 comments
Read more

The Jacket

E very man has one item of clothing his wife has begged him to throw out for years. Mine was a light-blue jean jacket with a fake white cotton collar. Erin hated that jacket with the kind of passion most people save for politics or pineapple on pizza. I’d had it for years. Presidents had come and gone. My career had risen, collapsed, and tried to rise again. Our kids had grown taller than Erin — which isn’t saying much, but still. And through it all, that jacket kept hanging by the door like a stubborn dog that refused to die. It was hideous. I can admit that now. The collar looked like dirty clouds glued on by a kindergartner’s craft project gone wrong. The denim was the exact shade of regret you get when you bleach jeans one cycle too many. And still - I wore it everywhere. School events. Grocery runs. Parent-teacher conferences. Probably even funerals. It wasn’t clothing. It was my emotional support jacket. Erin tried everything: gentle hints, sarcastic digs, quiet donation runs tha...
3 comments
Read more

The Spirit of Division (and Why We’re All Being Played)

  W e hear stories all the time about the supernatural—miraculous healings, near-death experiences, strange whispers in the night that make even skeptics pause. But how do we know what’s real? That’s what investigative journalist (and former atheist) Lee Strobel asks in his new book Seeing the Supernatural . He dives into evidence of the unseen world and invites us to consider something both ancient and terrifyingly current: What if God really does still rule over the spiritual realm—angels, demons, all of it? And maybe that’s where we need to start. Because the real battle today? It’s not just political, cultural, or ideological. It’s spiritual. We like to think politics is about ideas—policy, vision, leadership. But underneath the hashtags and press conferences, something darker is happening. Something feeding on us. Every election cycle, every argument at the dinner table, every “unfriend” click on Facebook— it all fuels a spirit that thrives on outrage. That sp...
Post a Comment
Read more