yours.

I want desperately for you to be my freind. But you are not my freind; you have slid up warmly to the man i wanted to be, the man i pretended to be. Should i show you who i am, we may crumble. I am not scared of you, my love, I am scared of me.

I want to be known and loved anyway. Can you do this? I trust by your easy breathing that you are human like me, that you are fallen, like me, that you are lonely, like me. What is this great gravity that pulls us so painfully toward eachother?

We were fools to believe we could redeem eachother. Were i some sleeping Adam, to wake and find you resting at my rib, to share these things that God has done, to walk you through the gardne, to counsel your timid steps, your bewilderd eye, your heart so slow to love, so careful to love, so sheepish that i stepped up my aim and became a man. Is this what God intended? That though he made you from my rib, it is you who is making me, humbling me, destroying me, and in so revealing Him.

I am quitting this thing, but not what you think. I am not going away. I will give you this, my love, i will love you, as sure as He has loved me. And i will do this to my death, and to death it may bring me. I will stop expecting your love, demanding your love, trading for your love. I will simply love. I am giving myself to you, and tommorrow i will do so again. I supposed the clock itself will wear thin its time before i am ended at this altar of dying and dying again.

-Donald Miller