Some guy gave out postcards at an art festival asking people to write their secrets on them and send them back. Some of the results are displayed in this blog. It's a good mix of stuff.
Some of it is funny, some of it is kinda sordid, like you'd expect and some of it is actually quite painful to read. Like "I haven't spoken to my Dad in 10 years and it kills me every day"
The site is worth a look - it's a little bit of an insight into the people you see on the bus every day. You don't know them at all, and every single one of them carries at least one postcard like this in their heart all the time. All these secrets that make people feel distanced or dirty or freakish. Things that if you confessed it to 3 of your mates, you could almost guarantee that at least one of them would say "really? me too!" and yet the world goes on carrying these postcards on their own. So many of these secrets weigh heavily on the people who own them, people who would be released by the opportunity to admit what their postcard says, freed by the knowledge that somehow its only half as bad now that someone else knows.
The thing is, while we all carry these postcards, pressed tightly against ourselves so that no-one can read what they say, God has seen it all along. In fact, he saw it when the secret was made, let alone when you "wrote" it on your "postcard". In reality, the only weight the postcards have on us is that which we apply by holding it so tightly. If only we'd let God read them - he'd take it gently from our hands, tear it up and his answer to whatever it says would be "It's OK. That's why Jesus." and he'd follow it with a hug and a genuine "I love you, silly! Now can we leave that there and carry on getting to know each other?" And he wouldn't just repair the broken bits. He'd restore them completely.
So why do we still carry them?
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