Hand Written Letter

Part 3: Garden Gates

Posted: Thursday, May 29th, 2014
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About Letters Never Sent Series

A collection of never-sent, personal responses to real people in Martha's life, profound events and little encounters alike.

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Beloved friend, don’t analyze me.
I defy analysis. So do you.

To do so violates my soul by confining me to your concept of me.  I might believe it and close the door on God.

Analysis is a cage . . . let me fly.

You want final answers set in concrete. You want arrival. There is neither . . . there are only spurts of clearing the path. This is a journey, the delights of which – for now – are confined to the path, not the destination.

No, the Bible calls us pilgrims, moving . . . always arriving but never staying. Tent dwellers, are we. No castle with a moat. So little is permanent. No mood, no belief . . . no problem.

I won’t be the same next time we meet. Neither will you. We will have gone in our direction another little step. Back to old. Or forward to new.

This is why I won’t tell you my “temperament type” or spiritual gift. You will pickle me there.  I intend to transcend myself. Let me. I will share all of Him in me with you, but when you take my liberty I will leave.

Ah, I remember Brenda. I prayed with her in sickness. When I turned to go, she said, “When you leave, leave me with Him.”

Her words were a feast. When at last I had chewed and swallowed, I was changed. “Don’t hold me. Don’t label me. Plant a seed. Do your part. Don’t damage me by doing more. Don’t! Please don’t be my God and rob me of Him who alone knows me. Leave the initiative to me. Leave the action to me, and leave my changing to Jesus.”

So, my friend, don’t make decisions for me. Don’t make me six . . .  I’ve been six too long already. Offer suggestions. Tell me how you did it but spare me your military commands.

Respect my soul with a terror, knowing you have the capacity to impair His secret building, or at least delay the construction while He tears down what you nailed up.

Don’t capture my volition.

Rebuke me. Correct me. Scream at me. Pierce me . . . but always throw in your confidence that you could be entirely wrong.  Let Jesus be the final authority – for us both.
And I demand the freedom to be stupid.

I never asked you to plow my plot. I only asked you how. And please . . . Please! don’t open my garden gate.

Let me!

Copyright © 1985 Martha Kilpatrick, Letters Never Sent

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