When he was eleven years old, my son gave me a gift he’d picked out and purchased himself.   A small ceramic pitcher—about five inches tall, painted pearly white, with a tiny pink flower attached. Not long after, a stormy season sent me more fervently seeking, searching for rescue and relief. I sank my teeth deep into a brown leather Bible, and its words sank to the deepest parts of me. God’s Love Letter was the balm for my hurting heart, the binding up of wounds, the filling up of empty within.