November 18, 2025
To the one whose friendship has become a safe place for my unfiltered soul,
There are moments we speak of easily, and then there are moments that sit inside us like something sacred—too heavy, too honest, too revealing to be spoken casually. What I’m about to share with you belongs to the latter. I’ve held it long enough to know it was never meant to stay unspoken.
This letter is about the night I finally understood covenant, salvation, and the mercy of God in a way that stripped me bare. And I’m writing to you because you understand the weight of truth when it refuses to stay theoretical.
It began with love—
more accurately, loving someone more deeply than I ever intended—only to slowly, gently, painfully discover that they could not love me back with the same depth. Not out of unwillingness, and certainly not from lack of care. Simply because life had carved limits into them that my affection could not undo.
It reminded me of the psalmist’s words,
“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18).
And in that moment, I realized the “brokenhearted” included both of us.
As truth surfaced—quiet but immovable—I found myself standing before a question I didn’t want to face:
Do I walk away to spare myself pain, or do I stay—without being met, understood, or reciprocated—because something in me refuses to abandon them?
My instinct leaned toward self-preservation.
My heart leaned toward loyalty.
My pride demanded fairness.
My spirit whispered covenant.
Then, in the tension of that moment, the Lord interrupted me—not loudly, but with a clarity that pierced deeper than any human voice could:
“This is how I love you.”
Friend… those six words reshaped my entire life, from then forward.
They hit with a precision I still cannot fully articulate.
The moment He spoke them, everything shifted. My pain became a mirror. And in that mirror, I saw myself as I truly am—a man whose love is small compared to the love I receive.
I realized:
I am the one with limited capacity.
I am the one whose love flickers and fades.
I am the one who hesitates in obedience.
I am the one divided between God and lesser things.
I am the one who offers Him fractions while He gives me fullness.
And yet — He stays.
It reminded me of Hosea, when the LORD commands the prophet to love an unfaithful wife “as the LORD loves the children of Israel” (Hosea 3:1).
A covenantal love—ḥesed—that never withdraws, never weakens, never negotiates its loyalty.
My experience that night was just a glimpse—
a faint shadow of what God feels every day.
A sliver of revelation into how minuscule our love truly is compared to the vast, relentless, unchanging agape love He pours out without hesitation.
It was then that salvation stopped being a doctrine and became Abba, who refused to walk away.
I finally understood David’s cry,
“Restore to me the joy of Your salvation” (Psalm 51:12),
because salvation was no longer abstract.
It was God choosing to stay with someone who cannot match Him.
Ezekiel’s words came alive:
“I will give you a new heart… I will put My Spirit within you… and cause you to walk in My statutes” (Ezekiel 36:26–27).
Restoration before obedience.
Transformation before capacity.
Covenant before reciprocation.
And when I saw that—really saw it—something inside me broke open.
Standing upright felt dishonest.
My knees gave way before I could think.
Not out of fear—out of revelation.
A God who loves like Hosea,
who restores like David begged for,
who promises Joshua, “I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Joshua 1:5),
who binds Himself to me through Messiah’s blood—
such a God is not to be admired from a distance.
He is to be surrendered to.
It was in that posture—face down, trembling—that His Torah finally made sense in the deepest way.
Not as burden.
Not as law.
But as love engraved.
Jeremiah’s promise became real:
“I will put My Torah within them and write it on their hearts” (Jeremiah 31:33).
His commandments are not chains.
They are the shape of restored love.
The natural response of a heart that has finally glimpsed the truth:
My love is a whisper.
His love is an ocean.
And yet — He receives my whisper and calls it covenant.
Friend, I tell you this because I believe you’ll understand what I mean when I say:
That night wasn’t heartbreak.
It was revelation.
God showed me:
“I stay with you even when you cannot stay with Me.
I love you even when you cannot love Me back fully.
I restore you long before you obey Me.
Your love is small, but Mine is covenant.”
And so my prayer has changed:
“Write Your Torah on my heart.
Expand my capacity.
Do not let my small love shrink Your covenant.
Teach me to love You with more than emotion—
teach me to love You with my whole life.”
Because truly—
A God whose love is infinite
is worthy of more than the small, thin love I have given Him.
He deserves a heart that kneels,
a will that submits,
a life that obeys,
and a soul that learns to love with His own love.
With sincerity, reverence, and covenant loyalty,
B’Shalom u’V’Emunah, (“In peace and in faithfulness.”)
Your brother, a faithful bond servant,
Sergio
Such an eloquent heartfelt piece Sergio. The thing that hit me most was that God is Foundational. He loved me first before I could ever love him. Then it hit me in this piece that His love is truly covenantal!