Sooner or Later

Any minute the next edition of 5ive For Women will be available at 5iveforwomen.com.  It will include a little piece about changing seasons and I will surely post it here.... but while we wait for the printers to finish printing, here is a little autumn piece to read while you sip your pumpkin spice latte.

It can be found under the Fall section of A Friend Named Jesus.  As explained in the book, Fall is a time when "...Things are falling, chill replaces warmth, doors are closed and you wonder if God is still there. You hold to promises unseen, not realizing your faith is growing a foundation." 

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Unwritten 

August 17, 2008

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 unsaid.  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 that someone dig a little deeper, ask another question, see a little more clearly.

Instead.  They stay unwritten, unspoken, unthought.

But felt.  Clearly. 

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 You say to be open.  You say to share my words.  You say to be an open book.

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.

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