Before I knew Jesus was God, I knew there was God. And to God I wrote letters pouring out my heart, just wanting to be heard. For over 30 years, I documented my travails in Chinese, in Chinglish, and then in English. The thoughts were confidential, private and none too pretty. I cursed, I blamed, I screamed, I cried, I mocked and on rare occasions, I thanked.
I began each letter with Dear God and signed my name at least a dozen different ways. I used my pen name, my given name, my adopted name, my Chinese name, my English name and my online name.
Then I stopped. Years passed and they traveled with me from move to move. Finally, they came to collect dust in my parent's garage. They carried the weight my life - my years of tears and of fears; they represented a past I would some day exhume. They were part of me - the me I thought that made me who I was to become. I was wrong.
The year I dedicated my life to work for God, and proclaimed Jesus to be that God. I vowed to write again only for God. Then came writer's block. For God answered that vow and before I could write the inspired words for God, first He must purify my heart.
Repeatedly God asked me to make a sacrifice of my old writing. But I could not let them go. I wanted to sort through them and keep those worth keeping. For my idea files later.
I found my letters to God and began to excavate for stories that would testify of the miraculous change in me. I found great material for high family drama, like those angst-ridden plays of Sheperds and Strinberg. Or possibly for primetime soap operas. But none could be transformed into something uplifting. How could they? Written when I was Godless and selfish, immature and judgemental, the pages condemened those I loved and doubted God at my time of most need. It should be no surprise that there were no happy endings within. For without faith, no one could please God.
After three years of writers block and futilely attempting to redeem the past my way, I offered up my twelve boxes of notes, poetry, essays, short stories, journal entries, diaries and random rants of madness as a sacrifice. I took them to my girlfriend's house so she could serve as a witness. Then for eight hours, I burned them in the fireplace.
As my face reddened from the heat of the fire, the burden in my heart lifted and the discontent of my spirit quieted. I finally understood that it was for my life to be spent as a letter written by God than to spend my life writing letters to God.
I've written to ease my pain; I've written to hear my voice; I've written for vanity; I've written for sanity; I've written for fun; I've written for laughs; I've written for me; I've written for money. But until I write for God, this talent is for naught.