By Sean Dietrich

Dear God,

It’s me again. How have you been? How is the family? Hope you had a good holiday season and that you didn’t have to smite too many people who drove too slow in the left lane. Give Moses my best.

I know you haven’t heard from me in a while, and I’m sorry about that. I’ve been busy lately and I’ve forgotten to check in. But then, I hear you’ve been pretty busy, too.

For example, I heard about that helicopter crash in Philadelphia yesterday. The aircraft was headed to Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia with an infant onboard when it crashed in the Drexel Hill neighborhood of Upper Darby.

There were four passengers inside: A nurse, an infant, a pilot, and a flight medic. The helicopter went down like a sack of rocks, and frankly, everyone should be dead. But they’re not.

All survived. All are in stable condition. The officials said it was a miracle. And even though nobody used Your name directly, I knew it was You.

And just today, I got an email about Bryson, a kid with Burkitt lymphoma, stage three. A few months ago, this cancer covered 90 percent of his body, and after four terrifying chemo rounds the kid was ready to give up.

The worst part was, the type of cancer Bryson has is so aggressive that if one cell is left after radiation treatment, the cancer could blanket him again in a matter of days. Everyone has been holding their breath.

This afternoon, that young man’s grandmother wrote to tell me that doctors believe Bryson might be going into remission. Today is Bryson’s 12th birthday, a birthday he’ll remember forever.

You did that. I know it was You.

You were also involved in the story of Noel and her husband, Chris, who live in a heavily wooded area of Stafford County, Virginia.

During the recent snowstorm, when trees were falling down, and powerlines toppled like Tinker Toys, and traffic was stalled on I-95 like a coronary blockage, Noel’s water broke and she went into labor.

The young couple tried to call for help, but no calls or texts were going through. Snow was blowing, trees were being uprooted, the electricity was out. No ambulance could reach Noel’s home because of the barricades caused by the storm.

It had all the makings of a full-scale disaster. But it wasn’t.

Noel’s mother was able to get in touch with Fairfax County Fire Department, who connected with Stafford County Fire & Rescue. First responders made it to Noel’s house on foot, climbing over fallen trees and trudging through dangerous conditions.

The medics were going to deliver Noel’s baby at home, but Noel insisted on going to the hospital. And that’s when the real miracle happened.

The first responders guided the young woman through the blizzard, through the woods, across frozen creek beds, plodding through a foot and a half of snow.

She finally reached the ambulance, and they made it to the hospital where Noel gave birth to a healthy baby Josephine.

That story has Your name written all over it.

And don’t forget about Gus Albritton, the Vietnam veteran. In the early ‘80s someone broke into Gus’s house in Brooksfield, Florida, and stole several valuables, including his three Purple Hearts.

It was a low blow. It was lower than low. After all, they don’t just give Purple Hearts out like breath mints.

Enter Jamie Bath.

Recently, Bath was at a yard sale when he saw a Purple Heart for sale. He picked up the medallion and read Gus’s engraved name on the back. So he bought the service medal, looked Gus up, and mailed the medal back to him.

When Gus opened the envelope: Niagara Falls.

“I got my Purple Heart back after 38 years,” said an emotional Gus. “You have to shed blood for your country to receive a Purple Heart and I’ve shed my share of blood for my country.”

You, You, You.

The truth is, God, You do a lot of things that You’ll never get credit for. Not just big things, but little ones. Beer is only one example.

And yet sometimes I forget to sit down and simply say thank you. I wish I could tell you that I’m going to be more diligent about this from now on, and that I’m going to say thank you more often. But I think we both know that I would be lying, because I’m the world’s most imperfect guy. Nobody knows that better than You.

So I will simply say thank you here. Thank you for understanding me, and for not beating me up for my shortcomings. Help me offer that same leeway to others.

Thanks for looking out for me when I don’t deserve it. Thanks for today. And for tomorrow. And for all the other days You’ve seen fit to give me.

Can’t wait until we hang out in person.

Forever,
—Sean

By Myrna Conrad

February is the month that we celebrate Valentine’s Day – a day where we purchase a special gift or card to express our love for someone. Even though the day will be celebrated on February 14 by many people, the world seems to still be filled with people expressing anger and hatred toward one another. James addresses this inconsistency in God’s Word as follows: “With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God’s likeness. Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be.” James 3:9-10 NIV

Given all of the discord, dismissiveness, anger and hatred evidenced around us, we might ask the question, “Whatever happened to love?” Why do we go out of our way to find a way to express love on this day and not every other day? What does love even mean?

Merriam Webster defines love as “a strong or constant affection for a person. “A profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person” is the definition found on www.dictionary.com. The Cambridge dictionary describes love as “liking another adult very much and being romantically attracted to them or having strong feelings of liking a friend or person in your family.”

The words “I love you” can be said to many different people and the meanings can vary widely. Many people struggle to define and understand love. We all want to be able to express love and we want to be loved.

God’s Word tells us that God is love and that we humans crave love from the moment of existence. However, the emotion of love holds differing degrees of intensity. Four forms of love are found in God’s Word, coming from four Greek words: Eros, Storge, Philia, and Agape. Eros describes romantic love that two people feel for each other and we express as being “in love.” The Greek word Storge describes the affectionate bond that forms between parent and child, and between siblings. The word Philia is used to describe the deep emotional bonds found in friendship. Agape is the highest form of love and describes the immeasurable, unchangeable love that God has for His creation, mankind. This kind of love was demonstrated by Jesus when He gave His life for us.

All of these definitions and words center around a person’s feelings. Feelings come and go and that, I believe, is why committed love is so elusive in our society today. While love is a feeling, I believe lasting love is a choice followed by an action. Most of the time, people are seeking love to fulfill something within themselves, to fulfill their needs. However, when we experience the agape love of God, our need for love is fulfilled and we can love others by focusing on their needs. As I said before, feelings fluctuate, they change with the situation, but when we practice committed love with our actions, the feeling of love will come back even stronger.

You’ve heard the saying, “Actions speak louder than words.” This definitely applies to love. So, how can we better love those around us?

Be Aware:
Be aware of the discrepancy between what you say you feel and how you act.
Realize that love is a choice and an action, not just a feeling.
Think about the way you use the word “love” and make sure you aren’t replacing the word “like” with “love.”

Be Intentional:
When you are feeling frustrated with someone, choose to love them.
Don’t just express words of love, express your love through your actions.

Try to find ways to express your love toward those who are important to you every day, not just on special occasions.

By Sean Dietrich

We were newlyweds, living in a grungy apartment.

Each morning, I would wake before her. I would pass my morning hours writing poetry on a yellow legal pad, sipping coffee.

Mostly, I’d write the kinds of god-awful things you’d expect newlyweds to write. I’m talking painfully corny stuff. I’d leave these poems on slips of paper scattered throughout our apartment for her to find.

One such poem read:
“Together, the two of us,
“In thought, and deed, and breath, and heart,
“Shall never be lacerated apart.”

Gag me with number-two pencil. “Lacerated?” What kind of a dork uses that word? In fact, I’m not certain this verb works in this particular case.

LACERATE [verb: las-uh-reyt] lac·er·at·ed, lac·er·at·ing
1. to tear; mangle; rip. Example: “Hey dude, that poem you wrote really freakin’ lacerated.”

My wife saved all my crummy poems in a shoebox, and today they reside in a storage closet.

Anyway, when we first married, we lived in an apartment that smelled like dead squirrels. I am not being figurative. I mean our apartment actually had a nest of decomposing squirrels in the attic above our master bedroom.

The place was tiny, and about as ugly as homemade soap. The tenant before us had painted the walls black and greenish-gray. Sherwin Williams officially titled this color “Seasick Granite®.”

When we moved in, we made the place our own. We painted the walls brown and khaki. We bought a used coffee table and some scented candles.

My friend, Chubbs, found an old console television on the side of the road. I was lucky enough to claim the TV before the garbage man came.

The thing was heavier than a dead preacher, but we got it up the stairs. Chubbs, however, would suffer from severe disc degenerative problems for the rest of his life.

Our building sat across the street from a Waffle House, a Chick-fil-A, and an ice cream shop. And this is why we gained nearly fifty pounds within our first year of marriage.
We never went to the movies because we didn’t have the money. We ate Hamburger Helper without hamburger sometimes.

We saved our cash for a new window unit AC—our air conditioner was on the fritz. The thing would only work on days of the week beginning with “R.”

On weekends, every weekend, we ate donuts. It was our simple ritual, and I loved it. Krispy Kreme was only a stone’s throw from us, and when the hot-and-ready light would glow, by God, we were there.

Over donuts, we would talk for hours about nothing. Heavy doses of sugar can do things to the human mind. It can make a person honest.

She told me all her stories. I told her mine. You can do a lot of soul-searching over crullers.
My professional life was non-existent, I took whatever jobs I could get. I spent days crawling rooflines, swinging a hammer, or operating a commercial lawn mower. She worked as a preschool teacher at church, or in a kitchen.

For extra income, I played piano at a Baptist church on Sundays, Sunday nights, Wednesday nights, Thursday night choir practices, and Saturday night prayer meetings.
We learned things about each other. We learned important things.

We learned how to argue in the middle of a Winn-Dixie, and how to attend two Thanksgivings in one day. How to share a sunset, seated on the hood of a truck. How to read in bed with a flimsy battery-powered book light.

We learned how to travel together with paper maps. And after years of practice, we finally learned how to make a bed together without me getting murdered.

We learned how to hold each other when loved ones die. We learned how to sit together—me reading a magazine, her playing a crossword puzzle.

We learned how to wring our hands in hospital waiting rooms. We learned how to bury dogs with a shovel and a burial sheet.

We learned how to make a life together.

A lot has changed since those days, but I still wake early in the mornings to write. I don’t use a legal pad anymore, I use a laptop.

This morning, however, I did not write. Instead, I sifted through our storage closet. I found things. An old coffee-tin sewing kit, some scented candles, love poems, and the picture of a young man and his new wife in their first apartment.

In the picture, the place had ugly gray walls, but that’s the only ugly thing about this photo.

He’s holding her. She’s holding him. They are young. Their skin is smooth. I wish I could tell you how much I love these two people in the picture.

I wish you could see their faces, and their punch-drunk smiles. You can tell they belong together by looking at them. You simply know that their names should never be said apart.
It’s as though nothing bad in this life can ever touch them. As though the two of them, in thought, and deed, and breath, and heart, shall never be lacerated apart.

I suppose that word is growing on me.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Jamie.