to whom it may concern - letters to the faith that raised me

Dear Reader,

There are some letters that we need to write, not because they need to be read, but because they need to be written. They arrive late, long after the stories inside them have passed and been forgotten by everyone else except the writer. Some are little notes sent on a postcard. But some need a few pages to carry the weight of words we couldn’t write (or say) in the moment, but now have the strength to put into the atmosphere.

To Whom It May Concern: Letters to the Faith That Raised Me is a series of those letters. And in case you’re of the belief that anything honest is malicious - these letters aren’t meant to be evidences presented at a trial to demand some kind of justice. They’re so much more than that. They’re more like a memorial. A remembering. A way of honoring ourselves by putting words to pain, gratitude, joy, regret.

And I say “our” because while most of these letters are mine, I hope to share some of yours, as well. If at any point, you feel compelled to write your own, you can submit them here - anonymously, if you want. Or you can not submit them. Maybe you just need to write it, crumple it up, throw it away, or maybe you need to actually stamp it and send it. If you feel like a letter needs to be written, just write it. Don’t worry about where it’s going. It doesn’t have to go anywhere.

These letters can be addressed to pews, pastors, teachers, teachings, ideas, fears, feeling, or interactions that were benign to everyone except you. They’re meant to speak honestly to the systems and stories that shaped us - for better, for worse, and often for both.

My letters have pain and joy, sometimes in the same story. They’re addressed to people who hurt me and people I have hurt. There’s no campaign against anything here, nor is it a sentimental nod to what was, or a bypassing of things that have been harmful. It is, I hope, something braver than any of that.

Writing these letters is an act of integration. This is how we heal. We lay out all of the pieces that shaped us, good and bad, and gather ourselves up together again. But not to return to some version of ourselves that was better or to go back to the places that hurt us. But to just … move forward. We pick up what we need and leave the rest behind. In telling the truth about what hurt and what healed, we start walking, bravely, into wholeness.

The great thing about writing letters that you aren’t actually sending to anyone in particular is that they don't really have to be finished. Letters can be a whisper of gratitude, a cry of protest, or something untangled and unfinished. We don’t write to dwell in the past, but to reclaim the present, and maybe make the future a little bit softer for us.

There are a million ways to put yourself back together.

I hope my letters help you feel seen, understood, hopeful, and a little more empowered to reclaim your life, your joy, and your faith.

The first letter from me is stamped and ready to send.
It’ll be in your mailbox in the morning.

With you in the middle of it all,
Kristen