My words make no difference.
What I write only goes out to a handful of awesome Texans and about 50 lurkers. On a huge day. Mostly, just Carrie and Jennifer. Who are, quite frankly, enough. But still, I’ve been doing this for some time.
What I say… Well, what I say goes a couple of ways. Either people look at me slack jawed and say nothing. Or they respond whole-heartedly in the spirit in which it was intended.
I have no control over which way it’s going to go. With my friends, it usually hits the mark. With people I don’t know well, there is a lot of blank staring. At first, I thought it was just with people who were really cool and out of my league (yeah, I’m 46, not 14), but on second thought, realized was happening even with people whose opinion I didn’t care about. Making this a bigger problem.
My words are too many.
They are too all over the place
like that kid in Family Circus.
They are too strong.
They are too weak.
My words are too full of faith in the possibility that God will just do something completely miraculous. That it won’t be a people sized task. It will be something so fracking off the charts that people will look at you sideways and slack-jawed and wander away, because they refuse to believe you are telling the truth.
Sometimes my words are curse words, because let’s be honest. Blue as your nose may be, there are times when your brain let’s one fly. Jesus knows. You may fool me, but He’s on to you. (One time the white tiger at the zoo, threw herself at the chain link, less than five feet between us and her. I re-appeared on the ground 30 feet away, the “s” word on my lips. The girls scolded me. I said, “Look, I never had a tiger attack me before, and it turns out, that’s the word you say.”)
My words are too honest. Too real.
Because we have only a moment.
No time to waste sipping dishonest tea with my pinky sticking out.
It probably comes off uncultured. That’s legit. I’ve been alone for the vast majority of my adult life. Even so, not protected from disaster.
My words…disjointed (because I have the whole conversation in my head), overly enthusiastic, yet jaded and cynical. With a twist of innuendo.
Not trying to make it okay, at all. Just saying. The words aren’t working anymore, and I’m starting to fantasize about drawing pictures. They’re stored up and someone threw away the key. I’m talking less.
Crying more. Praying with my tears, my work, my eyes, my heart, and even my sleep*.
Words were all I had left. And now, I’m relinquishing them, too.
*”Daddy, I don’t know what to do or how to do it. I am going to trust you to work while I give up and rest on You.