I can tell you this much, child: one day you will feel an unbearable amount of pain. It’ll be in your heart; and it’ll knock you out. I’m not trying to wish you misery. I’d never do you wrong.I don’t want you to live your life expecting that moment, in fear. But one day, it’ll come; it comes for us all; at some unexpected moment. You will cry (it’s ok to cry, love), and you will curse (sometimes those words can be a temporary cure), and you will want to talk to God. Even if he doesn’t exist to you, you will want to talk to God. You’ll ask him why. You’ll tell him you’re done. You’ll curse him out. You’ll question him, deny his existence. “Why’d you turn your back on me?” If he’s out there (I truly believe he is), he will understand.
You see, I believe this moment happens because there’s a grander plan for you, and yours. And life doesn’t come with a GPS to guide you and tell you how to avoid setbacks and provide you with detours. So we will never be aware of this plan and when it gets us, we wont understand it.
I wish I could tell you I could remove that pain. I wish that I had a giant shield to protect you from anything and anyone that could hurt you. I wish that I had a giant sponge to absorb all this pain. I’d squeeze it over a river; send it out to sea. But I don’t. You’ll have to carry this one day. And bear it’s brunt. I hope my hand will help. I hope that I’ll open my mouth and magical words will come out that will make it all better. But I swear that I will try my hardest, my earnest, to help you through. Maybe to prepare.
You see, I never knew if to write you this letter. I don’t want to instill the fear of God, I said. But a warning never hurts, I rhetorted. Pain in one’s heart creates tolerance and resilience, I thought. But not being prepared for anything can hurt you; badly, in a way that can’t be fixed, I concluded.
So here’s the only trick I know, child. Be kind. To yourself and others. Love with all your might. With no fear. Blindly. Love hard. Listen a little better. Hug a little tighter. Make sure no moment is forgotten, no kind word unreciprocated; cherish every touch and word and smile. And spread your kindness. Be philanthropic or charitable or funny or sweet or smiley or polite or innocent; but spread your kindness through whatever means you are permitted. When that pain comes, this kindness will guide you. It will help you fight that sadness, the evil, the blackness in your heart.
Remember that one time we saw that young mother holding her child in the rain? Remember we gave her our umbrella? Remember how she smiled at us and held her baby close under that umbrella? Remember how we got drenched and walked into a coffee shop and they had seen you help that woman, so they gave you a hot chocolate and a butterfly cookie? Never forget that. That moment can fix you. That and all your other moments of unbridled kindness can fix you. You’ve had so many moments like these; you’ll have so many more.
I remember the day that moment came for me. It’s fresh. I still feel it. I’m still angry and I still cry when no one is around. Sometimes I cant breathe because of it. Sometimes i don’t want to get out of bed. I’m not telling you seeking sympathy. I’m telling you because you deserve to know; because I don’t know how else to thank you. But I remember your face. I remember your hands on my face; you pulling me towards you to give me one of your kisses. The love in your eyes; how you thanked me for being your father. Your smile. Your laugh.
I’ll cry again tomorrow. I’ll be angry again tomorrow. But I’ll get out of bed and I’ll try my hardest to be kind; to support you and those we love. And I’ll teach you to do the same. And I swear to you, child; one day, I won’t hurt anymore. This pain, it’ll disappear. It always disappears. It never stays for long. This much, I swear to you, child.
P.S. I can see you through the doorway; in your mother’s arms. She’s smiling. You’re smiling back, tenderly. There’s no anger in her eyes, no pain, no darkness in her heart.
I may be wrong, child; I might not be angry tomorrow.