To the hurt little boys

Hey, if you want to buy the purple mermaid folder,

Buy it.

It's really okay. I'm so sorry I said it wasn't.

Do not choose the cheaper power.

You don't need to bend the rules

so that you'll always win the game

YOU STARTED LOVED.

And you still are.

Dad, I know everything you did.

You and all those other men.

Don't you dare blame me anymore.

Don't you blame anyone else.

Now, will you stop building hell up around yourself?

Maybe not.

But other little boys might be ready.

Sweetheart,

The man who hurt you was WRONG. He was a small, weak, yappy little dog.

His power was as weak as darkness.

All I know of your dad who hurt you was a black, metal dustpan, hanging on the wall of grandma's living room.

Wide, heavy, and stamped with the words: "ONE PUNCH."

He worked at Goodyear Tires. One time, he settled an argument with another man by knocking him down with one punch.

And all around, the crowd cheered. Like a professional wrestler in the ring.

Dad, you worked as a bouncer at the wrestling matches.

You knew those wrestlers were fake, right?

Don't punch. Talk.

Don't gawk. Say hello.

Don't lust. Serve.

Power is not in punches.

That trophy was for gathering dirt!

Wrestling wasn't real. Your power isn't either.

I thought I was a victim.

No. I was a fire.

Little dog, the lies are over.

I stand over you, unsheathed claws,

A lion grown up golden,

Yet I won't kill you with my paws.

No, I'll burn you through with fire,

and I'll burn you through some more,

It's not because I hate you.

No. We're getting to that sore,

That used to be your heart.

The heart you locked away

with grime, dustpans, and punches,

My boy, it's the only way.

You're going to say I'm sorry. You will never hurt again.

But once you do, sweetheart, I'll introduce you to a friend.

He laughs, he cries. This man created flowers. This is the Lord of Hosts.

He's the tender shepherd.

The travailing woman too.

A hen, a little baby, and He is still your God.

You demean yourself when you attack women. We hold a key of knowledge that you need.

We know how to feel! It honors Christ in word and deed, to give our will, to watch Him bleed.

Feel it, boy!

Cry for what your dad did to you. Yell and swear. You get to be angry. Pound your fists on God's chest.

Mother Eve looks on, whispering about bitter and sweet. Mother knows best.

Do you know the hero you have in Eve?

Listen! She whispers that you were always strong enough for the suffering. That's why we have a Savior.

Heavenly Mother cries with you. She would set a whole forest on fire for you. But she sets you on fire instead.

She wants you back. Be born of the ashes, little boy.

Come home.

Cry for me. Cry for the pain you caused.

Now cry for him. Cry for your father. Because he was just another little boy in pain. All of them, little hurt children. Do you see why Jesus wept?

We'll sit with you as long as you need. I am willing to see your pain. Christ can see it even better.

When you're ready, come and play.

There's something only you can make.

With your hands that would destroy,

Have the audacity to create!

Feel the power of the Being who made you. Make that Creator proud.

Not with punches, but the with the power you're endowed.

Little boy, we see you.

We always have. We always will,

So put away the tough guy,

My boy,

It's time to feel.