I wrote a letter to Jordan eleven weeks ago today.
I don’t know Jordan or very much about Jordan. I don’t know his last name, or how old he is, or if his father is his hero. I don’t know what his favourite colour is, or if he separates all the food on his plate, or if he mixes his mashed potatoes in with his corn, like I do.
I don’t know if he reads books all the time, or if his favourite sport is hockey, or if he has three nieces and nephews who he takes to the park on weekends and pushes them on the swing so high, they feel they must be flying.
I don’t know if he drinks his coffee black, or full of vanilla cream and sugar, or if he drinks coffee at all.
I don’t know if he kisses his mother on the cheek everyday, or if writes himself sticky note reminders so he doesn’t forget, or if he watches Netflix late into the night.
I don’t know if he’s angry, or disappointed, or maybe just plain old sad.
I don’t know if his whole life has been spent in that chemo suite, or if he was recently diagnosed. I don’t know if it’s his girlfriend that sits in the room, waiting for him after his chemo, or maybe it’s his sister, or maybe it’s a friend. I don’t know what kind of cancer he has. I don’t know why he has to be in a wheelchair when his young frame seems so strong and healthy, but his hairless head bears the signs of the disease I have come to despise.
I don’t know if he knows that he is cherished and treasured and captivated by the Creator of the universe.
And I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about the boy I saw in the chemo suite on the day of my mother’s first treatment.
So I wrote Jordan a letter.
I saw you two weeks ago when my mom was getting her first chemo treatment at Juravinksi. Since then, I have been unable to get you off of my heart. I sincerely hope I don’t seem creepy for writing you this, and I hope I gather up the courage to somehow get it to you. My name is Aliza. I know your name because I heard the nurse call you.
Anyways, I wanted to tell you that I have been constantly thinking of and praying for you the past two weeks. I have no idea how you feel about God, but I feel like I need to tell you that He loves you. I don’t know what your story is, but I do know that God loves you. And I just wanted you to know that too.
I will continue to pray for you, Jordan. Jesus loves you so much - more than you will ever fully be able to comprehend.
I scrawled it on a piece of lined paper and stuck it in a small brown envelope, then licked the sticky lining shut. And my heart pounded loud and my hands shook, and all of a sudden I didn’t want to give my stupid letter to this boy who doesn’t even know I exist.
But the breath of God whispered across my heart - yes, sometimes you have to write a letter, because how can Jesus die for me and then I refuse to love on others?
My mom gave the letter to the nurse the next week. I know Jordan received it. I have no idea what he thought. Possibly (probably) thinks I am the creepiest person to walk the earth.
But sometimes you just have to write the letter.
What letter do you need to write?