The Valentine Letter - by Jeff Davidson (Originally published February 11, 2015)

The Valentine Letter

(Originally published February 11, 2015 by the late Jeff Davidson)

No chocolates. No flowers. Not even a card.

You tell yourself, “That’s OK. What I really wanted was a nap anyway.”

But you didn’t get that either.

The dishes still sit untouched in the sink. Baskets of unfolded laundry are stacked on top of each other like planes circling an airport. Another bill lies unopened on the kitchen counter. You don’t even want to look at it tonight, so you leave it there with the others—still unopened.

Your biggest hope for this Valentine’s night is that you won’t be changing your child’s sheets at 3 a.m. like you did last night.

You’re not even sure what you feel anymore. Sometimes you wonder if you have any feeling left at all as numbness quietly settles in.

Your bed calls your name, but you don’t have the strength to make it there. Instead, you collapse onto the couch.

Instead of flowers and candy at work today, you received a call from your child’s therapist and a denial letter from your insurance company.

Instead of a romantic Valentine’s dinner out, you had French fries and chicken nuggets—because for the seventh night in a row, that’s the only food your child with a disability would eat.

Somewhere, people are dancing tonight. You’re not even sure your shoes match.

But I watched you today.

I watched you lay down your life again and again for your child. I watched you love without condition. I watched you give sacrificially—until there was nothing left of you to give.

I saw everything. I heard everything.

And when you cried yourself to sleep, muffling your tears in your pillow—I heard that too. In fact, I collected those tears and kept them in a bottle.

But I heard something else you didn’t.

I know how deeply you long to hear your son speak. I know how desperately you want to hear him say, “I love you, Mom.” I know how frustrating this is for both of you.

Tonight, as he lay in his bed, I heard something you didn’t, Mom.

I heard him speak to me in his spirit—over and over—about how much he loves you, how much he needs you, and how you are his whole world.

He and I talk about you all the time. While this world has limited his ability to communicate with you, he speaks clearly to me. We share a language not bound by this world.

In that language—known only to us—he tells me of his love for you again and again.

His body and mind may face challenges, Mom, but there are no broken or lesser souls.

You are his valentine every day—not just today.

He loves you. You give him life. I like to think you learned that from me.

I know a thing or two about sacrificial love—about laying down your life for someone else.

And one more thing, dear Mom.

Never forget. Never doubt. Never—ever—forget or doubt.

I love you too, my daughter. I chose you. I called you. I created you.

My eyes saw you before you were fully formed, when I knit you together in your mother’s womb. You were never hidden from me. You—and your child—are fearfully and wonderfully made.

I gave you this life because you are strong enough to live it.

I cherish you. I will never leave you. I will never forsake you. I will never stop loving you. You are never alone.

Be my valentine.

Love,
God 

Update from Becky

I can’t begin to express how deeply I love this writing from my late husband, Jeff. He always had a way of speaking straight to the heart. Now that he is no longer with us, his words mean more to me than I can ever fully express, especially as I navigate life as a solo parent, and on holidays when the ache of his loss feels especially real.

To all parents caring for a child with disabilities, know that you are seen, valued, and loved. Every sacrifice you make for your child, every sleepless night and stressful day, know that your love is shaping a life in ways you may never fully realize.

And on this Valentine’s Day, I hope you will remember that even in the hardest moments, you are not alone. God sees your sacrifices, cherishes your efforts, and carries you when it feels too much. Thank you for loving fiercely, giving tirelessly, and showing what real, sacrificial love looks like. You are extraordinary.

—Becky