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December 26, 2018

Dear Dad,

Do you remember that Christmas Eve when Mom slipped on the ice? I was eleven. I remember her body splayed on the black glaze of our driveway. Her shriek, muffled by snow. Her ankle, which didn’t look like an ankle but a jumble of bones threatening to burst through skin. I remember rushing to her side, hugging her with savage force, my embrace twisting her body as she let out another scream and you pulled me off her and she clutched her leg. Her eyes were twin fires. I was certain she would die. Certain my secret had killed her.

And then the dull glare of the hospital. The limp tinsel above Mom’s bed. The pathetic cardboard Santa taped to the wall. I ripped his head off at the neck, threw it to the ground. I went back for his body, but you stopped my hand.

Mom sighed. Why don’t you and Daddy go for a little walk?

Is Mommy gonna die? I whimpered later as you led me through the sterile halls.

Of course not, you whispered.

How do you know?

Because we love her, you said, brushing away my tears. Because God loves her. And that love is more powerful than death. That love will save us all.

But you didn’t know my secret. Boys like me didn’t get God’s love. We got His wrath. You said so yourself, in so many sermons.

And then the next morning. Our famous family breakfast. You at the stove. Mom sitting at the table, her crutches propped against the counter, her right leg in a cast. Reporting for pancake duty, you said, saluting her. Filling in for our injured soldier. You hummed “O Holy Night” as you mixed the batter and the blueberries. Already the crisis was fading, replaced by the rhythms of our favorite ritual. Our family was whole again, but I was not. A tension grew in my body—a tension between what I knew I was and what I knew you and Mom wanted me to be. I felt I didn’t deserve to be at that breakfast table—not with my secret sin that triggered God’s fury. That almost killed Mom.

And then that Christmas service. Mom standing next to me, crutches under her arms, beaming down. You at the pulpit, telling the story of Christ’s birth. Then it was time for Communion. You invited us to the table. Mom took my hand, but I hung back. She tugged at my arm and frowned. I was terrified to approach the altar. Terrified the bread would turn to poison on my tongue. Terrified that this was where God’s punishment would claim me. But Mom persisted and we walked to the front and you handed me a piece of bread and smiled and said, Take and eat, for this is the body of Christ. I cried as the bread softened in my mouth. You smiled again, mistaking my tears for reverence.

See, I told you, Jonah, you said after the service. Love saved us after all.

But love didn’t save us, did it? Not in the long run.

I want to love again, Dad. Which is why I’m writing you this letter. Which is why I went to your new church yesterday. Which is why I sat in the back row and stared down at my slush-crusted boots as everyone else stood and sang “O Holy Night.” I sat, my body stiff with terror, as the band quieted and you stepped onstage.

Suddenly, I was in two places at once: I was a kid sitting in the pews of my childhood megachurch and I was an adult sitting in a folding chair, holding a lifetime of hurt. The only thing that kept me in my seat—the only thing that kept me from running out, running to the car, leaving forever—was the hope that the present could heal the past.

“Merry Christmas,” you said to the room. A warm expression spread across your face. “I’d like to start this service by welcoming everyone. We are all loved by God, loved for exactly who we are, no matter our race, gender, or sexuality. And I also want to acknowledge that this is a difficult message for many of us to hear. So many of us in this community have been hurt by the evangelical church. So many of us have been shunned, shamed, or”—your voice broke, but you continued—“shut out of our own families. And I want to acknowledge that pain and remind us why we’re here: to reclaim our faith.”

Your words were addressed to everyone but felt like they were meant just for me.

You began your sermon.

You told the story of a family. A desert journey, a couple desperate for shelter. A woman pregnant, about to give birth. Her life and the life of her child at stake. Mother and father pushed through burning sand, suffocating heat. Finally, one innkeeper took pity, allowed them to take refuge in his stable. They joined the animals, fashioned a bed from hay and manure. The stench was heavy. The woman screamed.

The child was coming. The mother’s cries agitated the livestock. Oxen kicked and paced. The man sweat through his garments, clutched the woman’s hand. Prayed she would survive. And there, in the muck and grass, in the lowliest place imaginable, a miracle occurred. She gave birth to a beautiful boy.

The embodiment of God’s love. New hope for the world.

As you finished, you said that God didn’t stop with the birth of Jesus. That God continues to birth new love, new light in each of us every day. But you reminded us that birth is painful. That renewal takes time. Yet on the other side of suffering, there can be growth and joy.

You said that as you talked about birth, it was impossible not to think of your own son. Your broken family. For so long, you missed your boy. For so long, you were angry, lost. But out of that pain, a new love had been born. Your son had returned home.

I had returned home.

I am home.

You explained how our reunion brought healing. Hope. You prayed I felt the same.

Then it was time for Communion. You invited us to join you at the table. One by one, people took hunks of bread from your hands and dipped them in wine. I was reluctant to join the group. I remembered the awful Christmas service from my childhood, the terror I’d felt approaching the altar, the certainty that God would strike me dead. My mind knew that this time was different. But I couldn’t do it—the pain was too much, the ritual too loaded. Then I caught your gaze from across the room. It was a look I’d never seen before: humble, pleading, hopeful. You have your father’s eyes, Mom told me once, picking me up from conversion therapy. If only you saw the world the same way.

I stood from my seat and you stumbled back, surprise contorting your face. I had the strange sensation that our bodies were connected; I could feel your blood pounding in my skull, your heart thudding in my chest, your muscles pushing me forward.

I had no idea what I was about to do.

I arrived at the altar. I looked down at those empty symbols—the stale bread, the sour wine—then up at your face. And I don’t know if I believe in Jesus, or God, or the scriptures, or any of it. But at that moment, it didn’t matter. Because I believed in the tilt of your smile as you lifted your arms. I believed in the warmth of your embrace as you held me, weeping, and told me you were sorry. And I believed you when you whispered in my ear: “I love you, son.”

I love you too, Dad. I wasn’t able to say it in the moment. Wasn’t sure I believed it. But now, as I sit and write this letter, I know it’s true. From my desk, through the frosted pane, I can see Grandpa’s house. A light glimmers in the kitchen. Your silhouette passes a window. For a moment, Mom’s there too. My heart pounds faster. But no, it’s just a curtain, playing tricks. A ghost. Mom vanishes, but you stay. Your shadow flickers and my pulse steadies. My body relaxes. You emerge from the house. A smile ignites your face. You step off the porch and into the fresh snow. You walk toward the Strawberry House.

You’re coming to get me.

You’re knocking at the door.

You’re calling my name.

“Jonah,” you sing. “I made breakfast.”

“Coming,” I say.

—Jonah