The Message Was Real
Awakening Letters – Post 3
The love story begins again — this time on a Friday. Memorial Day Weekend.
Blaine and I were supposed to go camping, but the trip fell through three days before. Maybe it was a logistical miss. Maybe it was God giving me space to hear what I needed to hear.
Either way, I booked a last-minute flight to Detroit. It wasn’t planned. But it was necessary.
There’d been this tug on my chest — a quiet insistence that something was about to change.
I land at DTW, shoot off the usual “Hey Dad, just landed — on the way,” and head toward baggage claim. He’s picking me up straight from work, and I’m grateful. My dad and I — we’ve earned each other. We’re alike in all the best and most complicated ways. We’ve hurt each other, understood each other, and always found a way to meet again on the other side. There’s grace in that.
He calls my mom on speaker as we pull onto the freeway.
“Can you pick up some bread from Kruse & Muer?” she asks sweetly.
I ask who’s at the house.
“Frank and Ash, Katie and Addie, Aus and Casey, the babies, Nana… and the Franks.”
I sink back into the passenger seat. Home.
My family thrives in chaos. People popping in unannounced. Cousins. Friends. Neighbors who become siblings for the night. There’s always food. Always music. Always too many shoes by the door. We were raised with the belief that what we have is meant to be shared — and even when that meant coming home from a mission trip to a flooded kitchen (thank you, clogged toilet), it still felt right. This is life, lived open.
We pull into the driveway and there’s Zoey — our Yorkie poodle — bouncing at the door like she’s waited her whole life for this exact moment.
Behind us, Austin and Casey pull in like it’s a freeway on-ramp. Austin, my younger brother, yells out:
“Welcome home, golden boy.”
He means it and he’s teasing me all at once. That’s love.
Inside, laughter. Babies crawling. DO almost walking. Maxine trying to coach him into greatness. Addie is making maltagliati by hand — eggplant purée, confit pheasant, cured yolk. The kitchen smells like Italy and resurrection.
For a while, I forget the tugging.
For a while, family covers everything.
Until 1:30 a.m.
The house winds down. Frank and Austin head to bed.
I sneak off and call Blaine.
Her voice answers, but it’s not the voice I know.
It’s heavier. Flat.
“It’s always the same when you go home,” she says.
“You say you’ll make me a priority, and you don’t.
You’re supposed to be my husband one day… and you can’t even send a text.
Enjoy your family. I think we should talk when you’re back in Baltimore.
I love you.”
Click.
The shame hits immediately.
It’s not just guilt — it’s a flood. Every lie. Every selfish act. Every unspoken apology tightens around my chest like a belt I can’t loosen. I can’t breathe. I can’t feel my way out of it.
I go upstairs and crawl into Austin’s bunk bed. I just need to feel another human near me. But it doesn’t help. My body freezes. My thoughts spiral. It’s like being pinned under invisible weight. No words. No breath. No way out.
And then —
“Let go.”
The voice is not mine.
It doesn’t explain itself.
It doesn’t soothe me.
It just speaks. And I know it’s real.
The next morning, I shut down. I move through the house like I’m on mute.
I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think. I’m counting the hours until I’m back in Baltimore — alone, untouched, unbothered.
Around noon, my mom asks if I want to go see a few houses she and my dad are thinking about buying in Detroit. I agree half-heartedly. We drive into Indian Village — that stunning, soulful part of the city where time stretches and the homes look like they remember something we forgot.
She’s mid-sentence about an ivory-laden five-bedroom when I interrupt.
“Can we just go to the airport now?”
She glances over.
“Your flight’s not for another four hours, baby.”
And I start to cry.
Not quietly. Not politely.
The kind of weeping that comes from your cells — the part of you that finally breaks after carrying everything too long.
I cry for how I’ve been acting.
I cry for what I’ve done.
I cry because I know change is coming, and I’m afraid of who I’ll have to become.
She pulls the car over and lets me cry. She doesn’t say a word.
She doesn’t need to.
At the airport, I find a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, face still red, heart still unraveling. I order something warm, sit down, and try to get it together.
That’s when I see it:
My journal.
In the front pocket of my carry-on.
I pull out five loose pages and start writing.
Everything comes out:
my heart, my fear, my doubt, my shame, my ache.
Tears hit the paper. My body finally exhales.
And when I finish, I remember something Blaine said a long time ago:
“Alexander, as much as it breaks my heart, I will gladly give you up if it means you become the man God wants you to be.”
Let go wasn’t just a phrase.
It was a command.
And it was a blessing.
And it was the beginning.
🌀 Reflection Prompt:
Have you ever been told to let go — not by a person, but by something deeper?
What were you clinging to?
What fell apart after?
And what was waiting for you in the silence?
Feel free to reply. Or just sit with it.
You are not alone in this.
With love,
Alex