Dear Patsy,

"Instead it should be that of your inner self, 

the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit,

which is of great worth in God's sight."

1 Peter 3:4

"Do not forget to entertain strangers, 

for by so doing some have entertained angels without knowing it."

Hebrews 13:2

______________________________

What an incredible honor it is to celebrate you. 

You bring an immeasurable amount of joy and beauty into the lives of everyone around you. 

I hope this birthday we are able to return to you even a small glimpse of what you give us every day. 

Patsy, 

You are a beauty that transcends definition. 

That word is used so carelessly, 

but you are not beautiful like a 

"sunrise over the sea" 

or even the 

"first snowfall of the season."

You challenge every cliche,

 and make the stars tremble in inferiority.

You are beautiful like 

the power of a quiet touch, 

crossing tree root bridges, 

butter on fresh baked croissants, 

the way the whole world seems to dance when a storm brews.

You are what it feels like to hold a hot mug of tea,

 and the hand of someone you love on a dreary day. 

You are as boldly elegant and powerful as 

s i l e n c e .  

You are flowers in soft flowing hair, 

as close to effortlessly perfect as one could be. 

You are starry lights and barefoot dancing on summer nights. 

You are the difference between experiencing beauty with the outside senses, 

and feeling it internally. 

And you are the most beautiful expression of the unending grace of the Father. 

Patience

 is so fitting as you've shown me what it means to exhibit true 

grace and worship

 in the midst of discouragement. 

You have such an extraordinary heart for the Lord, 

and you encourage me to further pursue Him every day. 

He created you as a physical illustration of the fruits of the spirit. 

Your veins flow with an unprecedented gentleness. 

The sweet spirit you carry consistently humbles me.

You my dear girl are a beloved gem of the Father, 

Precious. 

Incomparable.

His

P R I N C E S S.

You are so incredibly loved. 

I am so thankful for you Patsy. 

I hope you have a birthday filled with 

dessert, 

laughter, 

and all of the lovely things life has to offer. 

With all my love, Meg 

Dear Amelia,

Happy Birthday sweet girl!

To be completely honest,

 this letter has been very hard to write. 
The words just keep coming up short.

I have decided, however, the only way to do this letter justice is to write it while eating ice cream.

Hemingway said,

"All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know."

So when all else fails, 

that seems like a pretty good place to start. 

My Mia, 
you are the most extraordinary exceptionality. 

There is nothing about you that is ordinary.
You are nothing less than pure sunshine. 
Most people have to settle for golden drops of sun, 
but I have been blessed so far beyond measure with you. 

Your presence in my life acts as the most vivid reminder of the unending grace of our God.

I am in no way deserving of a best friend as loving and patient as you. 

You have the most merciful heart. 

Somehow you bring beauty out of everything, 

and love others in a way that is so sincere it could make them question even their deepest insecurities. 

You could move mountains. 
I truly believe that. 
You've moved mountains within me. 

August 19, 2013
proved that love is truly blind. 

I spend so much of my life in sheer and utter awe of our Creator.
I wish I could tell you the number of times I have sat and cried,
and just poured out my heart to God thanking Him for placing you at Eastern,
in LFP,
and directly in front of me in the trust walk line that day.
We do not serve a God of accidents.

Amelia,
I hope you know how much I admire you.
You are so much of the person I want to be when I grow up.
You are the warmest, 
most loving,
 and encouraging person I have ever had the privilege of knowing. 

You have brought an immeasurable amount of joy, laughter, and love into my life. 

I wouldn't trade our nights spent laughing on your floor for anything in the world. 

Thank you for always being there to say YES to dessert, 

go on ridiculous adventures, 

and providing all of the elegance and vivacity your spirit brings. 

I love you so incredibly much. 

Happy Birthday! 

With all my love, Meg 

                        

                        

Dear Artless Hearts,

Candidness is one of the most truly beautiful things in this chaotic mess of a cosmos. 

Those raw moments of complete honesty, 

Unforeseen and unexpected. 

Those brief moments where we catch a tiny glimpse of something natural in a world that is anything but. 

Gusts of wind snatching skirts, 

trembling stage frightened hands, 

the heavy exhale after you close the door separating you from the world after a torturously long day,

the first sip of coffee in the morning, 

 losing your tongue to your passions, 

stubbed toes, 

panicked gasps, 

wet hair, 

and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. 

The look that graces your face when you think of someone special when you're all alone, 

the first raindrop, 

  The pause after the "Once upon a time...",

untouched snow, 

the part of you that poetry shakes and lyrics sings to, 

missed steps, 

and waiting on second chances. 

My friends tease me because I notice hands. 

I think hands tell a lot about a person. 

Where they are callused and the condition they are in speaks volumes about a person's habits, interests, and priorities. 

And just like the rest of us, 

they are in a constant state of becoming. 

The way a person handles things, 

 steady,
graceful,
rough,
 strong,
 gentle,
 reckless,
 intentional,
careful,
 or careless

also often reflects how they will handle me.

Fingertips draw circles on the table top, 

tracing lines and cavort precariously at the edge, 

And he does just that around my heart. 

She tells me stories and explains the process, 

her mannerisms so much like her mother, 

graceful and intentional, 

although she claims her hands are unsteady.

And she is the most beautifully graceful and sure footed person I have ever known.

The passion flies out of his fingertips as he fuses himself to the melody.
I watch him breathe in the notes like the purest oxygen
as even the twitch of his brow speaks to the piece.
His hands hold a strength entirely their own.
Calculated and methodical,
but somehow still solicitous,
thoughtful and kind.
And he defines the boundaries of discipline and the expansion of passion in a way that scares even me.

And there is an unparalleled beauty in her eyes.
She sees into the very nerves of strangers and sets fire beneath their skin with wonder.
The wind catches her words and scatters preconceived notions and impressions,
leaving them with questions they never knew they needed answers to.

Or at least that's what she has been told.
Belief is a curiously slippery thing.

These glimpses of honesty are possibly some of the only truly lovely things left in this world.
I believe the most exquisite things about people are the things they leave unsaid.
Beautiful things don't ask for attention.

Isn't it rather offbeat that what makes you a nonpareil masterpiece
is a direct result of you being perfectly artless? 

Consume yourself in these minuscule blinks of triviality.
Organic beauty is found in the details.
Especially in the ones that are harder to see. 

With all my love, Meg 

Dear 2013,

2013

You were beautiful.

This past year has taught me so much.

I've graduated from a wonderful school that I've called home 

for 13 years with people I consider family, 

Been accepted to my dream college and scholarship program, 

Fallen in love with academics and education all over again, 

Discovered a passion for writing,

Met people who have truly and permanently changed my life, 

Grown up, 

much too much,

 much too fast, 

Made some of the hardest choices of my life so far, 

Taken countless leaps of faith trusting God's ever abounding safety net to catch me, 

Learned more about myself than I ever could have dreamed, 

And have encountered true passion in it's purest form more times than I could possibly count. 

But most importantly, 

I've grown tremendously in my faith over the last year. 

There's nothing I want more than to be used for the work of His kingdom. 

I hope to look back, 

365 days from now,

Knowing I lived every day seeking after ways I could serve Him. 

I've struggled with allowing anxiety to overtake everything else in my life for a very long time. 

But I'm learning to be still, 

To listen, 

To trust God to take me where my faith is without borders.

As of right now, 

9:36 PM

December 31, 2013, 

I have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life. 

I don't know what I should major in, 

Or where God wants to use me. 

I don't know where I'm going, 

Or what exactly what I should be working towards in 2014.

What I do know,

I want more of you God. 

2013, 

you were incredible.

I've been blessed beyond measure. 

But honestly, 

you were about me. 

2014 will be about HIM. 

I'm so thankful for this past year and everyone who has touched it. 

Wishing you and your loved ones every happiness in this new year. 

With all my love, Meg

Dear Soul Sister,

When I read your letters, 

My heart feels so close to yours.

The strength you've found in words surpasses that of anyone I've ever met.  

Your passion is so present it's practically tangible. 

Your passion breathes life into fury, 

into incredulity, 

into restlessness, 

discomfort, 

and maybe even one day, 

change.

People so often want to turn away or ignore the things they find uncomfortable, 

or are "too big" for them to fix or handle. 

They want to silence the screams heard by the Red Light District girls by getting far enough away so they can't hear them,

rather than quieting their ever pounding hearts with something that will show them someone cares for them. 

Can we help them?

Even if it seems like there is nothing we are capable of that would make a consequential impact, 

Why turn away?

I sure am glad that's not how God looks at us.

I'm glad He doesn't look at the muck and the mire of our sin and say

"Well, they're never going to be worthy of me, 

 they'll always be overcome by their own selfishness.

What difference will loving them make?" 

Loving them,

Just loving them. 

You've written letters to the perfect summer girls on the beach, 

With sun-drenched smiles masking insecurity.

Society would recoil from the suggestion for girls to "let their bellies out"

They would never tell us that exhaling and finding comfort in the way that we are

would not result in everyone running away in fear or drenching us in judgement.

They would never reveal that someone gave their last breath for every girl to have the chance to celebrate their imperfections and rejoice over their bodies because they are temples of the Most High God. 

You've shared the stories of Soraya M, the Sweet Stranger, A Baby Girl of Kensington, and Trucker Mouth Mama, 

making me cold down to the inside of my bones.

Their stories are gut wrenching.

My heart broke over and over again with every line. 

Your words resonate so long after reading them. 

I find myself thinking of these women you've introduced me to throughout the day, 

praying for them, 

wishing I could pour God's love out to them the way you have. 

You've reprimanded words themselves for not understanding the expectations they set, 

and spoken deep into my soul about the power of seeking control.

But what I feel is the most powerful letter you've yet to write was to the arrested pimps and rescued children. 

Soul Sister, 

It is a gift to have the ability to make the audience feel what others feel, 

that's what a true artist does, 

they convey emotion.

Raw emotion.

That grates and scrapes the inside of their guts, 

that rubs their throats raw as they consume the words you've written, 

that brings anguish and grief with the closing lines, 

making the audience, 

in that moment feel even the slightest fraction of what those children felt, 

what their parents felt...

Your gift is going to evoke change. 

Passion is what sparks movement.

Progressive movement that impacts, 

relentlessly, 

until a difference is made. 

You are filled with this jarring honesty. 

"There's no lie in her fire" 

Your fearlessness…

I wish I had the strength to write to that torn curtain of the temple, 

or to the lioness.

If I could muster even a fraction of your strength, 

maybe I, 

like you,

 could be used to pour God's love out to the broken hearted. 

If only I was strong enough to write out my heart to the Father's Son,

If I had the courage to tell him how I cried for hours after reading your letter to him, 

If I could find the intrepidity to tell stories like his the way you have…

I truly believe you are my Soul Sister.

Your voice is so much stronger, 

and your beautifully raw words are inflamed with an unquenchable passion that moved under my skin and spreads like wildfire catching every single nerve and setting them ablaze. 

But your heart beats with the breaking of mine. 

Your words speak directly into the furthest corners, 

seeking out and illuminating everything I attempt to repress. 

Challenging me, 

Encouraging me, 

Calling me to act. 

Thank you so much for sharing the stories you've encountered.

Thank you for your bravery, 

and for your passion. 

Your words hold the power to set the world on fire. 

With all my love, Meg 

P.S. Please Please PLEASE do not deprive yourself of the opportunity to read these incredible letters! 

Check out Sincerely, Your Soul Sister at 

http://sincerelyyoursoulsister.blogspot.com

Dear Mistress of Elusion,

I wish I could breathe poetry.

Fill my lungs to the maximum capacity with metaphor and simile, 

and exhale winding graceful verses, 

inflamed with raw emotion.

I wish I could bleed out all of the word I want to say.

Slash my porcelain skin and let the scarlet speak for itself. 

Show you exactly what is written all over my fractured heart.

I wish every blink of my eyes, 

every small step, 

every gesture, 

would reveal the words I so desperately wish I could articulate.

But this Mistress of Elusion stands in my way.

I know the game you play.

You shamelessly flirt with the tip of my tongue, 

coyly revealing just a little, 

but never enough.

Like the most artful pick-pocketer, 

In just a second lost in contemplation, 

You snatch the words right out of my mouth. 

Mistress of Elusion, 

You are a wretched scarlet woman, 

and you are killing me. 

With every word that goes unsaid, 

with every word that you stifle,

another line forms, 

another bag finds rest under my eyes, 

another stress ulcer forms, 

and yet another hour of sleep is lost.

You toy with my mind, 

Dance back and forth with it, 

teetering between what I should bring to life with my lips, 

and what I should leave buried deep in the abysmal depths of my disheveled mind. 

You think it is a game, 

And to you it is 

You are reckless. 

You are filthy.

You are selfish.

I despise you with every fiber of my being.

The heavy words you hold captive have such potential.

They could soften heartache and silence shudders of emotion.

They could shed light on so many questions I just couldn't find the words to answer. 

They could change everything. 

Or maybe nothing at all…

Because of you I'll never know. 

If I could meet you face to face, 

I'd tell you just how much I hate you.

I'd tell you of all the distress you've inflicted on me and the ones I love,

How you've brought so many beautiful things to ruin, 

I'd show you faces of all of the people you've hurt.

And tell you of the countless tears you've provoked. 

I'm sitting here typing furiously, 

flushed with rage and pure unadulterated hatred of all the pain you've inflicted. 

But as I read over this fragmented letter, 

I've become wrought with the realization that if I was to meet the Mistress of Elusion face to face, 

I'd be looking in a mirror. 

It's me who has broken hearts and brought ruin to lives.

It's me who has stifled potential. 

It's me who has stood in my own way.

I hope one day the countless people I've hurt will find some place in their hearts to forgive me.

Know there is nothing I wouldn't do to remedy the ruin. 

I am so deeply sorry. 

With all my love, Meg

Dear Professor Chris Butynskyi,

Your 9 AM

 Monday Wednesday Friday 

Ancient Western Civ course was the very first college class I ever attended. 

I made sure to arrive early.

Much too early. 

And came fully prepared,

 not really knowing what to expect.

I sat in the front row to set myself apart,

 and waited nervously for you to begin. 

You appeared to be very confident, 

almost arrogant, 

striding back and forth in front of us. 

You introduced yourself, 

Told us to never call you Doctor, 

and that you had absolutely no sympathy for us as students. 

You began by promising us you were going to destroy us. 

You read us your class introduction entitled "Welcome to Purgatory"

and followed with the assurance of our emotional demise. 

I believe the words were something like

"I will strip you of all positive thoughts you have about yourself, 

and reduce you down to nothing but a pile of ashes. But as the phoenix, you will then rise from the ashes and be stronger for it." 

You told us you HOPED to offend us. 

That you would challenge us in ways we had never even thought about prior to stepping foot in your class. 

That you would dispel within us the notion that education is tied to utility,

 and that "higher education" is synonymous with "employment agency."

You promised to help teach us how to live a "life of the mind."

And I was TERRIFIED. 

Initially, 

I was fearful I would be unable to meet your standards. 

This was my first college class.  

I had to prove to you but also to myself that I was capable of this. 

I was always a good student, 

and unflinchingly determined to succeed, 

but the promise to vanquish what little confidence I had evoked a deep seated fear in me. 

My stomach began to flutter and turn like Satan's wings in the innermost circle of Hell in Dante's Inferno. 

What if my insecurity kept me there?

What if like Satan in the Inferno I was desperately trying to rise from the ashes and fly, 

but couldn't?

What if I was beaten down and destroyed,

but then became so entangled by my own feelings of inadequacy that I remained entrapped in the ice of cold criticism? 

I remember turning the thought over and over in my mind. 

I have a sincere passion for learning.

It feels like the most incredible luxury to be in college. 

To have the chance to read and study so many different and amazing things I otherwise would not have the opportunity to. 

To glean wisdom from countless inspiring professors with diverse backgrounds and stories, 

not to mention perspectives and beliefs. 

To wake up and be genuinely excited about going to my classes. 

I refused to be fearful or defeated. 

The next class I came prepared and excited to see what class with you would actually be like. 

Before long your class was one of my favorites. 

I loved everything we read and was so eager to discuss the topics. 

The class period is far too short.

50 minutes to discuss some of the most remarkable minds, 

to analyze questions philosophers have been grappling with for years, 

and to completely alter our perspective on life and literature.

I leave every single one of our classes completely reaffirmed this is where I am meant to be. 

Some of the reading is hard.

The papers take me hours, 

You expect a lot out of us, 

And really make us earn an A. 

I could't possibly be more thankful for each of these things.

I have grown beyond what I could ever possibly measure through your class this year.

You've challenged my views and made me question just about everything I believe.

I've laughed, cried, and yes even bled over class discussions, readings and papers, 

desperately seeking to earn my place. 

You have corrected, rebuked, and encouraged us when appropriate, 

shown us how literature and philosophy impacted history and vice versa, 

dispelled various false ideas we've been trained to know, 

empowered us to break the cycle, 

shaped us into better writers and debaters, 

made several of us ponder converting to Catholicism and History majors,  

told us countless stories and somehow always tied it seamlessly into our readings, 

connected with us,

inspired us, 

given us a stellar summer reading list through all of your suggestions, 

and taught us how to seek after a life of the mind. 

I have been waiting my entire life to be in a class like yours. 

The feedback you've given me has meant so much more than you know. 

For the first time I really believe I could make something of myself. 

I don't know how to articulate it exactly, 

but I feel like I can hold my ground. 

Like maybe, just maybe, 

I could really do well here. 

That my unquenchable passion for learning and literature can transpire into my work and I could be genuinely proud of it. 

That I can be more than a listener, 

I could be a participant. 

I've always been incredibly fearful of mediocrity.

I want to look back 50 years from now and know that I never settled in my education. 

Even through writing this letter, 

there are still so many thing I wish I could find the words to say.

I am so incredibly thankful for all of the time, work, dedication, and energy you pour into your job.

Your passion is infectious and has inspired me in so many ways. 

I am sincerely going to miss your class.

Thank you so much for terrifying, exacting, and supporting me. 

I sincerely appreciate the standard of what you expect from us and how you help us reach it. 

Words are futile in trying to adequately express my gratitude,

But once again, 

Thank you. 

With all my love, Meg