Kate Motaung grew up on the shores of Lake Michigan before spending ten years in Cape Town, South Africa. She is married to a South African and together they have three children. Kate is the author of the e-book, Letters to Grief, hosts the Five Minute Friday blog link-up, and has contributed to several other online publications. She blogs at Heading Home and can be found on Twitter @k8motaung.
My e-book, Letters to Grief, is FREE from Monday to Friday this week (6/29-7/3) on Amazon Kindle.
Click here for your free download.
An Open Letter to the Future
The other day, I watched a friend stand up to you. She was afraid of you. She went to bed scared and woke up terrified.
Weary of the fear, she put on her brave.
I watched with silent applause as she squinted her eyes and leaned into you. She gripped a raised umbrella, shielding her cheeks from the force of your wind.
She doesn’t know what you look like, but she held on tight and walked forward in the face of your shadowed anonymity.
I want to be her.
Instead, I feel your tension in the middle of the night.
Your fickle moods manifest in my sleep.
I feel it in the clench of my jaw when I wake. I massage the knots and try to rub your uncertainty out of my face but you’re locked deep beneath the skin.
Your question marks are lodged between muscle and bone and sometimes I forget that I hold the key to release you.
I try running more, as if the exercise will free me from your tension.
The secret to a good night’s sleep is found not in running, but in resting.
Resting in the One who holds you and me both.
I may not know what you hold, but I know the One who holds you — and that makes all the difference.
You are not the boss of me.
I need not stand in fear of you.
Yes, you’ve made me waver in the past. I’ve lost sleep over you. I’ve longed to know what you look like.
But I know the One who made you, who owns you, who sees you and knows you.
I don’t need to fear you, because in Him I trust.
Image courtesy of kaitlynbouchillon.com, used with permission
You are divided.
You exist in before and after. An invisible curtain looms within you, unseen, but known.
This side of the curtain, you are a black hole. A void. Dense fog.
I can’t see whether the sunset is crimson or grey, whether the sunrise is rose or shrouded in gloom.
But soon the clouds on your horizon will blow away and the Light that has come into the world will make you fully known.
Beyond the curtain, there is certainty. Surety. Hope. Clarity.
A great day is coming when all your question marks will turn to periods. Full stops.
The dead will be raised to life.
Every knee shall bow.
No more tears. No more death.
No more clenched, aching jaws.
No more question marks.
Only promises fulfilled.
So I step into you gently, unsure of how or where my foot may land today — but persuaded that beyond the curtain, I’ll find the solid Rock on whom I stand.
Related Post: An Open Letter to Grief