In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters. And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. (Genesis 1:1-3)
Words are a form of action, capable of influencing change.
-Ingrid Bengis-
The words have always been there,
Words and words and more words,
A teenager's vocabulary
Crammed into a toddler's brain.
I was my loquacious mother's first.
I guess she couldn't help herself...
I guess she couldn't resist once she saw
That I was retaining what she said.
Words and words and more words
She would share with me,
And explain to me.
She would always read to me,
Golden Books, Disney Stories,
Fairy tales, and older material
Probably not suited for someone my age.
My mother first introduced me
To the lilting cadences
Of the writer's way.
I would go through her desk,
Eyeballing essays and compositions
She had written,
And thinking, "This is wonderful!
I want to be able to do this
When I grow up!"
Even the few neighbors who were family friends
Had heard about my love
Of the written word.
Lorraine from next door bought me
"The Big Book of Amazing Facts,"
A six-hundred-plus page tome
That had all kinds of facts about
Animals, and history, and science,
And other cool stuff.
She gave it to me for a present.
I was only four years old.
I started writing
At the tender age of eight -
Not the dry, boring school assignments
That my mother would quaff off for me
In under ten minutes,
But an actual short story,
A piece of fiction.
I was thrilled.
A fire was kindled,
A spark that led to the creation
Of literally thousands of pages
Of fiction, poetry, memoir, essay,
And even a play or two.
I don't exactly know what contributed to
The gradual slowing to a trickle
Of what was formerly a flood.
Life encroached.
Jobs. Family drama. Relationships.
Writing became less vital somehow,
Less needed as my days filled with
Busy-ness, responsibilities,
Chores, demands, and sleep deprivation.
But the love for the words
Has never left me.
"Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words will never hurt me."
What a load of crap that is.
Words have the power to hurt or heal,
To build up or tear down,
To hide or reveal,
To convey everything from love to apathy.
Words were present at the dawning of light
Over the face of creation.
In fact,
It was the utterance of words
That brought forth light,
And everything else that followed.
Father,
Speak Your Words to me.
Speak Your Words through me.
Let the words that leave me
Be gentle and tender and loving and sincere...
Edifying, emboldening, embracing...
Whatever builds up and does not destroy,
Whatever conveys love and compassion,
Whatever the words need to be
At the moment they issue forth.
Arm me,
Not as a denizen of planet Earth,
But as a citizen of the Kingdom of Heaven,
Wielding words as You would have me do,
Eternal Wordsmith Divine!
Words are a form of action, capable of influencing change.
-Ingrid Bengis-
The words have always been there,
Words and words and more words,
A teenager's vocabulary
Crammed into a toddler's brain.
I was my loquacious mother's first.
I guess she couldn't help herself...
I guess she couldn't resist once she saw
That I was retaining what she said.
Words and words and more words
She would share with me,
And explain to me.
She would always read to me,
Golden Books, Disney Stories,
Fairy tales, and older material
Probably not suited for someone my age.
My mother first introduced me
To the lilting cadences
Of the writer's way.
I would go through her desk,
Eyeballing essays and compositions
She had written,
And thinking, "This is wonderful!
I want to be able to do this
When I grow up!"
Even the few neighbors who were family friends
Had heard about my love
Of the written word.
Lorraine from next door bought me
"The Big Book of Amazing Facts,"
A six-hundred-plus page tome
That had all kinds of facts about
Animals, and history, and science,
And other cool stuff.
She gave it to me for a present.
I was only four years old.
I started writing
At the tender age of eight -
Not the dry, boring school assignments
That my mother would quaff off for me
In under ten minutes,
But an actual short story,
A piece of fiction.
I was thrilled.
A fire was kindled,
A spark that led to the creation
Of literally thousands of pages
Of fiction, poetry, memoir, essay,
And even a play or two.
I don't exactly know what contributed to
The gradual slowing to a trickle
Of what was formerly a flood.
Life encroached.
Jobs. Family drama. Relationships.
Writing became less vital somehow,
Less needed as my days filled with
Busy-ness, responsibilities,
Chores, demands, and sleep deprivation.
But the love for the words
Has never left me.
"Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words will never hurt me."
What a load of crap that is.
Words have the power to hurt or heal,
To build up or tear down,
To hide or reveal,
To convey everything from love to apathy.
Words were present at the dawning of light
Over the face of creation.
In fact,
It was the utterance of words
That brought forth light,
And everything else that followed.
Father,
Speak Your Words to me.
Speak Your Words through me.
Let the words that leave me
Be gentle and tender and loving and sincere...
Edifying, emboldening, embracing...
Whatever builds up and does not destroy,
Whatever conveys love and compassion,
Whatever the words need to be
At the moment they issue forth.
Arm me,
Not as a denizen of planet Earth,
But as a citizen of the Kingdom of Heaven,
Wielding words as You would have me do,
Eternal Wordsmith Divine!
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