Dear Father,
I wrote to you not too long ago about Liz. I told you I could not do it. I told you I got on my knees and could not last a minute before I stood back up. I told you the poison was killing me, and I meant every word.
But here I am again. And this time it is different.
This is my Letter to God — I Called Her Back
I do not know exactly when it happened. There was no lightning bolt, no dramatic moment where everything suddenly felt okay. It was quiet. Almost too quiet. One morning, I woke up, and her name did not sit in my chest the way it used to. The weight of it had shifted somehow, and I knew — I just knew — that you had been working on me while I was sleeping.
I tried again. I got back on my knees, and this time I stayed. I will not pretend it was easy or that the words came out perfectly. I stumbled through every sentence. But I prayed for her, Father. I actually prayed for Liz.
I prayed that whatever drove her to do what she did would be healed. I prayed that the hatred she carried would not destroy her the way my unforgiveness was slowly destroying me. And somewhere in the middle of that prayer, something broke loose inside me. I felt it leave. I cannot explain it any other way — it just left.
The job I lost because of her? I have a better one now. A position I would never have been considered for had I stayed. The shame she covered me in pushed me into a room I was always meant to be in. I see that now. I could not see it then, but I see it so clearly now.
I called her back, Father. I know. Even I am shocked.
I did not call her to rekindle anything or to pretend that what she did was acceptable. I called her because I refused to let what she did to me define what I do to others. I told her I forgave her. She wept. I will be honest — I did not weep with her. I was not there yet. But I said the words and I meant them, and that was enough for that moment.
I am writing this letter because I want it on record. I want someone somewhere to read this and know that it is possible. The thing you cannot imagine forgiving today — you can. Not in your own strength, never in your own strength, but with yours it is possible.
The poison is gone, Father. My joy is back. And I have you to thank for every single bit of it.
Still yours, Susan.
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