Friday, September 9, 2011
Below is a piece from my next book, expected to be published this fall. It's fitting to let you peek at it now. The book is divided into seasons. This piece fits well in the autumn section, I think. What do you think?
Thinking about unwritten books, unspoken words, unthought emotions. They sit there, beneath the surface waiting for the right pen to come along and begin the sentence. Or maybe it’s not even the pen, but the words that are unavailable. These ideas that need something to give them life. These emotions that need someone to give them purpose. They sit there buried under reality and wish for someone to dig a little deeper, ask another question, see a little more clearly.
Instead. They stay unwritten, unspoken, unthought.
But felt. Clearly.
I can’t help but wonder, where is God? Has He left me after all this time?
Now when my world is falling apart? My paradigms are shifting? My words are pushed back at me?
I keep wishing that the words under my skin would find some way to be released. That they would find someone to hear them. That someone would care enough to remove the wall, brick by brick, and allow the words to breathe.
I’m afraid of failure. I’m afraid that if I open myself up, I’ll only find myself vulnerable and hurt. I’m afraid that if I try to speak, I’ll not find an unresponsive listener, but I’ll find ridicule. And so I swallow the words and put the pen away and close the book.
I’d rather keep them to myself than risk their exposure to taunting.
But that Voice deep inside says to be open, to share these words, to be an open book.
I pray aloud, “Can you tell me, please, if anyone wants to hear, then? Can you tell me, please, if I’m just to carry all of this emotion alone for all my life? Would the words be shushed if they were shared?”
See? That’s why I close the book, put the pen away and swallow the words.
But the words push themselves to the surface over and again. Unwilling to remain unseen.
If only I knew someone would listen. I would share my words. I would describe the cacophony of sound I see and sing the colors that dance around me. I would write in great detail and wondrous prose the events and times and lives that shape my world. I would leave a legacy. A written record. A history.
But no one really seems to want to hear.
Or perhaps, I am not looking far enough or deep enough or soft enough.
From a distance, I hear again, the Voice of my Lord, “Be still and know. Give and it shall be given. “ And peace fills the void and silence is stilled.