The child in my arms re­ac­hes out his hand to brush my face. His dimp­les slow­ly dee­pen and laugh­ter spark­les in his ey­es. I see his ab­so­lu­te trust, the light that shi­nes forth. I qui­et­ly save this mo­ment in my me­mo­ry and let my­self be im­mer­sed in ten­der­ness.

When I was as­ked to start wri­ting this blog, I won­de­red how I could write about things that touch pe­op­le. Would I dare to open up? Could I trust the re­a­der, that unk­nown per­son out there so­mew­he­re? Could I write about my thoughts free­ly and wit­hout mis­gi­vings?

It is so­me­ti­mes dif­fi­cult to be brave. It is so­me­ti­mes dif­fi­cult to trust.

My fat­her died when I was lit­t­le. I lost an ir­rep­la­ce­ab­le part of my child­hood, a so­lid rock, a per­son whom I lo­ved and who lo­ved me. I lost my sen­se of se­cu­ri­ty. I be­gan to re­a­li­ze that not all things are per­ma­nent or ea­sy in life.

I was bul­lied at school and lost even more of my trust – and my self-res­pect. I che­a­ted in tests to make ot­hers think I was doing fine. I thought I was spa­ring my mot­her by kee­ping qui­et about the bul­lying and my ot­her dif­fi­cul­ties. I strug­g­led to get through the last se­mes­ter and ba­re­ly made it. I was as­ha­med of being dif­fe­rent, of not being good enough. Of being too sen­si­ti­ve. Too ea­sy to take of­fen­ce. Too so­met­hing.

It was on­ly many ye­ars la­ter that I be­gan to un­ders­tand how those ti­mes sha­ped me. They broke down so­met­hing but al­so built up so­met­hing.

I have made mis­ta­kes and bad choi­ces on the way, just like eve­ry­bo­dy el­se. But it is for­tu­na­te that we have a way to deal with pain­ful things. We can ask and have our faults and mis­ta­kes for­gi­ven.

There are so many dif­fe­rent pe­op­le, each with their own backg­round and pain. We may not al­wa­ys re­a­li­ze that so­met­hing that seems ea­sy or in­sig­ni­fi­cant to us may crush so­me­o­ne el­se. I can­not see in­to yo­ur he­art – and you can­not see in­to mine. That is why we need to stop and speak. Lis­ten.

I have ex­pe­rien­ced the bre­ak­down of so­met­hing I trus­ted in. But I have al­so ex­pe­rien­ced the en­du­ring strength of one foun­da­ti­on.

I be­lie­ve there is a po­wer that car­ries us even when we stumb­le un­der bur­dens. God, the Cre­a­tor of all things, knows me bet­ter than I do my­self. I can se­cu­re­ly be­lie­ve that my faults and mis­ta­kes have been for­gi­ven. I will not be­co­me fault­less, but that is what the per­fect grace is for.

I will not be wri­ting a per­fect blog. My im­per­fect words may even of­fend or an­noy you. But I want to ac­cept this task and try. I will try to write about what I see and ex­pe­rien­ce. About the roc­ky paths and the clear walk­wa­ys. About the small hand that re­ac­hes to take mine and le­ads me.

I want to write about simp­le words that make us pau­se, or a sing­le glan­ce that tel­ls us all we need to know.

Do you want to join me?

Text: An­ne Lind­fors

Trans­la­ti­on: Sirk­ka-Lii­sa Lei­no­nen

You will find the ori­gi­nal Fin­nish blog post here.