Letters to a Dear Friend

There is a place where hatred dies. I’ve often been in the place where hatred thrives. It has blocked the sun on a summer’s day. It has stopped the rain’s noise on the roof. It has leveled an earth cracked from drought. It has made me nothing more than a lump of flesh. And it has appeared often and powerfully, as if to brood over me as a cloud without color; not black or grey.

But there is a place where hatred dies. Now I look back to those days when it came to press upon me. Even there I remember that hatred was something. When I had nothing, I at least had hatred. But there is a place where even hatred dies. Then there is nothing. And the prospect of that agony is more than the brooding hatred.

So I searched out for anything I could do while it brooded over me. Perhaps I could twirl a coin. But there is a place where even twirling cannot be done; this place where hatred dies. Many think they will be rid of hatred and find a place of peace. But in the finding of that peace, they will find that even hatred has died in that place. As it has been our only friend, now even it has died. And nothing is left for eternity

This place where hatred dies, which I spoke of before, is not to be found while we still wear skin. I have heard people speak of this current place as the place where even hatred dies. But a simple look around shows that this is not so. And the death of love is also a myth born by those who walk in this place of testing. Among so many myths whispered by skin wearers, this one reigns supreme.

Wonderful and Horrible were brothers. One was and the other only pretended to be. Yet, Wonderful kept to Himself and only shared His thoughts with His closest friends. Horrible, on the other hand, shared his thoughts and belongings with everyone he ever met. I say this from the perspective of one who stands on the mountain top and looks back over the spreading village below, where horrible lives. I am nearly to Wonderful’s city. And I can hear the music of His people as they sing of He who Is.

He who never was, will never be. It’s a promise of truth from Wonderful’s lips. And in the city where I am bound, Horrible is never to set foot. The beauty is that those who live in the village can climb to this place if they are willing to simply ask Wonderful for help. Horrible is the stingy one. But Wonderful is generous and kind. Horrible takes and takes until nothing is left to consume. Wonderful gives and gives until His friends are full and complete.

Come with me and we will dance to the melody of those who know Wonderful face to face. One step. It takes one step across the threshold of your door. A simple “ask” is all it takes. Colors await, never again a colorless day again. Even the darkest moment in the company of Wonderful is filled with awe inspiring vibrance.


Horrible’s village produces only one product of any meaningful value, paper.   When he is gone who will be left to run the mill?


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