Words of Life

Emptiness. Quiet. Silence.

Yes, a woman's shoulder is a better place to rest a head then the sweaty palm, brooding over a keyboard. Saying sweet nothings into an ear is easier, quicker to enjoy, than hammering out fitting phrases for the world.

Yes, the pace and race of this life, so real and wild—so surprising, fascinates, occupies, engages more than my head. Many of those ideas are old and tired. But the world is raging with the new and shocking.

So things become unsaid. Only whispered, or told as anecdotes.

But into this absence George Herbert speaks:

Why are not sonnets made of thee? and lays
Upon thine altar burnt? Cannot thy love
Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise
As well as any she? Cannot thy dove
Outstrip their Cupid easily in flight? 

And so it runs, the spirit, the dove, deep into the breast, and it won't rest. It comes of not speaking enough. Praise must come. I must shout it, somewhere (everywhere!).

The Lord is Good. In all the business and riot of life, I see this thread run through it all: his faithfulness. Again and again he proves that he is good, that he listens, that he is there. Caring, guiding, providing. The tapestry of his benevolent providence ties up all I see. It encompasses my story.

Christ is the King of grace. Failures wash over my heart, on after another. They fill me. Then grace comes, like a flood. I drown in it. Loose my self righteousness, embrace repentance once again. His arms are still open, he is still gathering. And I run to the arms of my savior, once more.

Oh, it is all so sweet. It must be sung.

But I have nothing but clumsy and ill fitting words. Words that hang limply across my bones. Be as they may, I must shout them. I will shovel them out into the world. Perhaps they will catch fire in a better mouth than mine. Perhaps I will catch the rhythm and rime in time.

But shout on I will.