And so became my journey of journaling and writing letters home. And by home I mean with God, not so much to family. Before jail I had been homeless and never really had a place to call home. But I always remembered that feeling I had as a small child—that peace and safe feeling I got when I prayed and thought about the creator of the world and me— HOME.
I had lost my biological dad at 18 months old, and because I didn’t know my biological dad (which is something I struggled with) I felt very comfortable making the parallel in these letter to write them at first as if sending them to my bio dad. I wanted to believe that even if God didn’t hear me because he was upset with me or angry with me or because I wasn’t worthy yet, that at least maybe my biological dad would hear me and he could therefore plead my case to the real God. As time went on… The term dad, and daddy…became what I used when writing letters to God. Eventually I found my safety and peace again in just talking with Him…. In catching up every day in how the day went. And because of all of that… I think God looked down on me like I was still a very small, innocent, child…that still needed her daddy to forgive her, pick her up when she fell, and carry her to safe places, until I could learn to do it on my own.