You matter.


That’s all I have to offer today. I’m grateful for you, dear reader. If I could reach through my laptop and hug your neck, I would. By reading my little blog, you’re standing with me in a difficult season, but I don’t write about suffering and redemption in a vacuum or as a testament to my unique brokenness. Wouldn’t that be boring?

Writers need readers, and readers need writers (crazy how that works), but more than that, human beings need community. We navigate seasons of our lives that require more or less bravery, and bravery is always easier in community. Divorce. Cancer. Partings.

Every shadow walk, every valley, and every flavor of overcoming is enhanced by relationship and its living purpose: to facilitate grace gifts between broken souls. 

The greatest grace gift we can give or receive is love. Everyone needs to love and be loved. Welcome to humanity and God-breathed hard-wiring.

Common sense, right? Then why is it so hard for some of us (cough) to walk in loving relationship with our neighbors? I suspect it’s because we don’t know (and/or live out of) our worth, and we’re stubborn. We try to do life solo even though none of us create beauty from ashes outside of community. I carry these suspicions because the challenges listed above are my daily travels.

All of this to say: you matter. 

I’m glad you’re here. I hope to know you better. Certainly you will get to know me if you keep reading my blogs. I don’t need to know your name to pray for your healing. I don’t have to see your face to know you’re praying for me, too. I feel braver and more loved because of you. As our friendship develops, I hope you feel braver and more loved as well.

We’re in this thing–whatever the thing is–together. Disease. Depression. Beginnings and endings and everything in between. I don’t know the precise shape of your struggle, but I’m here to write hope and truth to you–even if the only truths I can write about with any conviction are birthed from my limited experiences.

Love thrives in broken spaces. Pockets of grace exist where mercy flows down just for you. Because you matter.

I care about you, dear reader, and I thank God for your kindness, your story, your unique brave. Together we’re creating beauty from my ashes and yours. We’re learning to live, laugh, and love through the bitter. Some days the best we can do is encourage each other to keep breathing–to hold on for one more life beat and then another–and that’s okay.

No one said we have to do this thing perfectly or quickly. Failure is a key ingredient in the only recipe I know for doing life well and in community with others.

Love. Fall. Be willing to be held. 

Together we’re the broken rising: a community of grace-seekers and grace-dwellers walking through the hard with heads held high because we have worth and purpose and because we do not have to walk alone.

Love and light,

image credit: Ann Voskamp


Author: Harper Green

Mom, sister, professor, writer, blogger, child and disability advocate. Prodigal daughter. Friend.

8 thoughts on “You matter.”

  1. Stride for stride, we walk together.
    May all the ears perched atop bamboo spines hear the voice behind your words.
    Thank you for granting us access at this level.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. had to read this in pieces, as decades old memories came roiling to the surface and i grieved again for my stepkids and my son’s loss of siblings. and the rush of thankfulness that i escaped the strife of custody battle…that sperm donor never got to see the gentleman we made, his loss. sending energy for eli’s return. peace, k

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Oh friend. I’m sorry you revisited that painful period. If/when you’re prepared emotionally, see the film Rabbit Hole if you’ve not already. A mother grieves the death of her son, and the film contains a beautiful metaphor that I’ll butcher here.

      We never forget loss. We don’t stop grieving the big losses, but grief’s intensity changes over time. At first grief is this consuming force. Eventually it’s like a rock you keep in your pocket every day. When you reach into your pocket, you remember it’s there, but (one hopes) you greet the grief rock, holding it for a beat before putting it back until the next time you reach into your pocket.

      We make grief a part of us–albeit a smaller part–instead of fighting grief until we’re beaten down. I don’t know. Just a thought. Love and light to you.


      1. don’t be sorry. those events are so long past that the remembrance was more recognition that could be shared than real pain. my son is a “double” dad now with two fantastic offspring, and an excellent partner and father. while i grieve for the stepkids, they were never really mine. at the time, very painful (remembering one old poem metaphor of an amputee…)

        examining the decades old scar is more like scientific research than a psychological risk exercise. your words made me think, and realize that life is so much better now, without my own “shadow” man 🙂

        will check out the flick, tho. like, when i finish grading. like that will ever end….


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