Dear Markus,
Hi buddy. I haven’t written you in awhile, mostly because you just cannot stop communicating when you're at home and by the end of the day, there aren’t any more words. We’ve covered everything, from where hockey players in the NHL come from to your preference for the convenience of living at your dads, and although I know I’ll forget many of these highlights, I also know I won’t forget the ones I need to carry with me.
Today you asked me to take you to a movie for your birthday. And then you retreated to your room – silently – only to return carrying an entire fleet of ice packs you had for your back.
“It feels better,” you say (they’re all hockey injuries, and I don’t know which one you are referring to either). So one by one, we cut bandages and release discomforts and saved the lives of the injured. And I asked you how you knew the bones weren't broken, and you looked at me – eyes as moons – and said, simply: “My gut knows.”
And Markus, here’s what my gut knows about you: You’re fierce, charming, unassuming. Our best days were spent people-watching, at Disneyland or a summer festival or the playground, soaking in your environment and love-casing, just as you used to as a baby. You’re making sense of the world around you, quietly, until you see something that isn’t quite right. And when you notice it, you speak.
I strive to be this way, Markus. There are many injustices in this world. And lately, I’ve been taking strides to love-case the news, searching for good. Looking for light. And when I notice something that isn’t quite right, I want to take a cue from you. I want to speak.
Markus, it’s easy in this world to remain silent. It’s easy to approach a subject with good intentions, unwilling to speak until we know the whole truth or receive all of the facts or sift through each and every news report. But in a world where truth is two-dimensional and woven with power, we’re often left to mend the holes ourselves, through history and perspective and experience.
I don’t know why injustice happens, for what reasons or under which circumstances. But I know it breaks hearts and strangles spirits. And I know the casualties are many. And I know – even more so – that we’re meant for more. “My gut knows.”
Becoming your mother has created a fire in me, Markus, to speak to what I see. To listen and nod and read and think, and then… to speak.
I know I cannot restore the injustices in this world. I know I don’t have the power or the capability or the persistence to change the story. But as a believer in God, I believe He can. And I know what it looks like. And I know it happens daily, in homes and businesses and war zones and court rooms and schools. “My gut knows.”
I believe then, it is our job to encourage. To speak the truths that we know, to come alongside the battered and broken and bruised and offer what we know to be of use, whether it’s a three-generation lasagna recipe or a bunch of briuse kneed prayers or a tear-stained shoulder or an open hand.
There are many people who will see this as an empty, optimistic view. And without faith, it sure looks that way. But faith is something you have in spades, dear Markus. You are a watcher and a thinker and a lover, and you’ve been gifted with a built-in supply of faith. Your gut knows.
I’ve got another name for your gut, Markus, and we both know what that is. May your gut speak loudly, always, and your faith never remain silent.
XO,
Mama
