Words, especially written, somehow always bring me comfort.
Reading the beautiful words of others give me permission to feel, to think, to live beyond the boundaries of my current life. I don’t remember learning to read, but I remember the greatest joy of my childhood was bringing home that stack of books from the library and diving into those pages.
And to attempt to put thoughts and feelings that tumble around my mind into written words is a gift that has given me comfort throughout my life. There have been times when I have felt so alone and the only comfort came from putting the deep pain and sadness into words with the act of putting pen to paper. And though there will always be something special for me about that physical act of using pen and paper, it seemed time to try it this way—with computer keyboard instead.
I have come to realize how much I want to write. I have come to realize how much I need to write.
Because spoken words seem to fail me. I spent my childhood years in mostly silence, mostly smiling, being shy and afraid to speak. I’ve “come out of my shell” through the years, but some of that fear is still there. And irony of ironies is that I have been called to a vocation in which one of my primary roles is that of preacher, speaker of the good news of what God has done for us.
And somehow, I can speak of God. And somehow, God speaks through me and allows people to hear of and experience the good news of God. And that is wonderful and amazing.
But I can’t speak of me. These people with whom I spend many of my days haven’t known me very long. They don’t see how difficult it is for share of myself, to open my mouth to speak of things that are important to me.
Somehow the weight of what is happening inside me doesn’t come out in words when I try to speak. Especially if I haven’t planned every word, every syllable.
I need a home for my words.