Dear Marisa,

In just a few hours, you will be anxiously looking at the clock, wondering why it’s taking so long for your lunch break to arrive.  When it finally comes around, you’ll grab your purse and quickly head towards your car where all the documents you need are waiting in the front passenger seat.  You’ll drive a few miles and then, finally, you’ll arrive at the place you’re getting ready to call home.

You’ll sign the last of the papers and they’ll hand you the key to your first apartment, your first step towards living on your own.  And even though you’ll need to head back to your office, you’ll instead go into the apartment, just to make sure it looks the same way it has the last ten times you’ve visited it.  It won’t look the same this time, however, because now?  Well, now it’s yours.

Over the last few weeks, you’ve let me be a part of this change in your life and I have loved it, Marisa.  You were so cute holding those dishes to your chest as I asked if you were sure they were the right color and shape you wanted; each time I’d ask, you’d hold them a bit tighter and, after a couple of questions, I was certain those dishes weren’t going anywhere other than our shopping cart.  How funny that, only two hours before, we were talking about the cute dishes we used to eat chicken nuggets off when we were little girls.

When you called last night, I heard a wee bit of that sweet little girl in your voice as you asked me if I was busy.  When I pulled into the Dairy Queen parking lot fifteen minutes later, I was shocked to see how beautiful you looked in just a t-shirt and sweatpants.  Something about the way you had your hair pulled back with that headband reminded me of how you looked when we were younger.  As I stepped out of my car, you were so excited to see I had wellies on that you insisted that I jump in a puddle right there in the middle of the parking lot.  And, after looking around to make sure no one else was watching, I jumped right in that puddle while you and I laughed like we used to when we watched cartoons.

As we sat in that booth last night, you talked to me a little about what it feels like to be moving to your first apartment and a lot about boys.  I didn’t say much as you told me about their calls and texts, but after you quietly said that you cried yourself to sleep last night, begging God to show you what to do in the situation, I finally spoke up –

“I’m so glad you’re going through this time in your life.”

I think your jaw hit the table right about the time your ice cream spoon did, but I meant it, Marisa.  I’m glad you’re going through it because I see God in it.  It isn’t pretty and it isn’t even fun but it’s your life and I see Him in it, from the boxes you’ve packed to the decisions you’ve made about those boys.

As I got into my own bed last night, thinking about our conversation, I realized that I had forgotten to tell you something.  I forgot to tell you that it’s okay that you might not be able to see Him in it right now because, four years ago, there was another girl, one who shares your very bloodline, packing her own boxes before crying herself to sleep because she too couldn’t see Him in the middle of it all.

But looking back now?  Well, now she can see Him sitting among those boxes, listening in on every late phone call from those silly boys.  And even though she wasn’t quite sure of it then, she’s certain of it now: He works everything — everything, Marisa — everything together for our good.

I love you,

amy beth