(For the girl I lit the candles for)

My favorite colors to wear are on the darker end of the spectrum – black, grey, charcoal, dark blue. But my choice of colors in shoes is red, deep and dark red to be precise, like my guitar.

That color captures a good part of my soul – the part that feels anger. I think most of the time the feelings were warranted even if the expression wasn’t. Regardless, I think anger was important in my development, it clarified what I believed in through what made me angry, it kept me alive and protected me when I was being bullied and attacked,

Anger is also often accepted as the only emotion men are supposed to have. That’s simply wrong. It wasn’t the only feeling I had, but I was just too immature or scared to show others – especially fear, sadness, and ironically, joy.

These days, I’m too tired to be angry at much. I’m not sure whether that’s a good or bad thing.  But it’s there, a deep reserve to draw on in times if needed.

(For the girl I lit the candles for)

There’s an analogy about how caterpillars have to undergo a drastic (painful?) metamorphosis to become a butterfly.  Apparently, the caterpillar’s parts are completely transformed to become this supposedly beautiful new creature. And somehow this validates the purpose of struggling.

First, I think I prefer being the caterpillar.  No need to fly and have fragile wings.  I’m happy being a little green thing hanging out on a leaf and eating said leaf.

Yet, struggling is an inevitable part of our existence.  You made it look so effortless on your end.  Not like me, so apparent at times and frankly ugly, inelegant, and choppy.  Struggling, however, gives us our true skills and powers – the gifts that matter.

(For the girl I lit the candles for)

At your graduation, your mom asked me what I would do with my life.  Without any conviction whatsoever, I mumbled something like “Prosecute people?”  If I had more confidence, I would have just told the truth – “I’ll ride the wave where it takes me.” 

And I did just that. 

But sometimes the wave is just too big and it wipes you out. 

Yet, still a great ride.

(For the girl I lit the candles for)

This one starts off unfortunately with despair. I know it’s not death, but it’s got to come close. It’s the feeling that the only possible roads in front of you are filled with only darkness and pain without the possibility of light and joy. It is unbearable and feels like sharp, jagged knives attacking from multiple angles. If darkness is the absence of light, then despair is the absence of hope. Without hope, you may as well be digging your own grave. With a machine.

We then pray for the restoration of hope. And hope is a funny thing because it does not sound anything like the opposite of the cacophonous sounds of the witch-like cries and accusations of despair. In fact, it doesn’t even make a noise or use anything resembling words. Instead, it is quiet and feels like a blanket of light that covers and protects you.

Then you know it’ll somehow be ok.  Time to live again.  To put one foot in front of the other, to not worry about the tallness of the mountain in front of you, to keep dreaming and to trust that even those are not in vain.  

It can sound so quiet and even inaudible at times, but the song of hope is mighty and powerful.  It cannot be silenced.  It ultimately drowns everything else out.

(For the girl I lit the candles for)

I was going to write about how I had to learn how to see life as a game with pieces to move or cards to play.  How I had no choice and even was quite good at it.  How I could see the hidden strings and even pull them at times.

But no, this is a song of surrender.  

When there are no apparent moves to be made or good enough cards to play, this is the only real path forward.

I once heard a sermon that said the safest place to be is in the will of God.

In many concerts, U2 also closes with 40, their take on the Psalm.

I waited patiently for the Lord He inclined and heard my cry He lift me up out of the pit Out of the miry clay

He set my feet upon a rock And made my footsteps firm Many will see

Many will see and hear

I will sing, sing a new song

This is a song of surrender.

(For the girl I lit the candles for)

Did I mention that I love your names?

As an initial matter, middle names fascinate me.  In some ways, they tell me more about a person than their first.  I’m not sure when I learned yours, but it made me love you even more.  Who has double grace in their names?

Only you. 

They fit you.

I know you don’t live up to them all the time.  No one does.  We grow into our names over a lifetime.  But yours are pure beauty and forgive me, pure grace.

I don’t really understand grace.  I sought and valued justice and fairness more up to this point.  But we all yearn for and desire grace.  When it shows up in our life, it is like the arrival of spring after a long winter, the sunlight breaking through the storm clouds, the relief of pain.

(For the girl I lit the candles for)

I rarely if ever sing at church.  I’m not really comfortable showing my full emotions in this manner.  Even when playing guitar, I held back.

But it is in worship when we are truly free.  When all is stripped away and we are naked, vulnerable in the eyes of God.

I remember this one video clip shot of you at church singing during a service. You are supremely secure and confident.

I find myself worshiping the most at rock concerts.  In the dark, faceless in a crowd, I finally feel the freedom to sing and cry. 

Songs of hope, praise, yearning, defiance, overcoming, surrender.

(For the girl I lit the candles for)

Rich Mullins’ song Elijah has these poignant lyrics – This life has shown me how we’re mended and how we’re torn, And how it’s ok to be lonely as long as you’re free. 

How true, painful, and wonderful those words have played out for me.  That freedom is priceless and what could I have adequately traded it for?  Even the loneliness had its benefits, the embracing of such to convert it to solitude.

On the most part, I was true to myself, spoke my mind, held fast to what I believed and felt, everywhere I roamed.  

Very costly at times, but it would have been more costly not to have done it this way.

(For the girl I lit the candles for)

A friend introduced me to Leonard Cohen’s lyrics – “Ring the bells that still can ring Forget the perfect offering

There’s a crack, a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in.”

I was always cracked.  And I knew how to somehow hold it all together, compensating for and even harnessing those cracks.  One too many cracks later and now it has all broken open.  The strange thing is that now my hidden light is coming out, that which I was afraid and ashamed to show.

In pain, comfort. 

In darkness, light.

In ashes, hope.

(For the girl I lit the candles for)

When the 9/11 attacks happened, I was barely a few weeks into law school, with an uncertain future in front of me – wrestling with what to pursue and wondering whether any route chosen was even possible.  Watching the devastation, fear, and palpable anger solidified my leaning toward a career in service, specifically to address and combat evil. 

Amidst all the songs written in response to the attacks, Bruce Springsteen’s The Rising stands out as a song of resilience and life.  His line “I was wearing the cross of my calling” strongly resonated.  

I have often wondered what my true calling was – Teach?  Seek justice?  Protect?  Lead?  All of the above?  And the scariest and craziest sounding one – to be a prophet of God?

I don’t think I’ve ever fully embraced my calling, whatever it actually is or may be.  I was frankly just too distracted, scared, immature, and weak to do so.  Even now, I still look for an easier route.  But it is our callings that open up the road to salvation and the true opportunity for the rising.