Boy,

I keep reading your last letter.  The compassion you extend to me is so astounding and overwhelming and comforting. I just bask in it.  Thank you for loving me as I was and as I am. If that isn't unconditional, I don't know what is.  Your constancy has given me the confidence to grow and change, to strike out on this journey, to ask questions, to find a home with ambiguity and always know I can come back to you. Thank you for being in my life. Thank you for all you teach me about love, service, patience, observance, work, trust, faithfulness. Thank you for wrapping me in your arms and holding my hand and being my comfort. I love you.  

The thing about being real for me is that it's not something I've ever been good at.  It's always easiest to do that in writing. Words on a page don't betray emotion nearly as much as a voice and a face do. I have a very hard time making myself talk out loud about what's really in my heart or weighing on my mind.  I'm not good at exposing my vulnerability but I'd like to be better.  I suspect sometimes that you hold back, but maybe I'm wrong.  I'd like to talk more with you, but I don't even know where to start. I think I worry about being misunderstood or discovering that the things which are very heavy to me are inestimably light weight to you.  Or maybe I worry that everything is heavy to me. That's not your problem, it's mine, but I recognize that if it's my problem that makes it ours. So yes, let's talk more somehow. 

L