“You forgot that I called you a writer.”
It was like I could hear Him saying it to me as clear as the night before the dawn breaks. God whispering in my ear this simple truth that I forgot. It is funny how in all the noise that this life offers us, that we forget who we are. We forget how we were carved and how we were dust breathed upon to become beauty.
I can remember thinking to myself, that to be a writer was some sort of low-level and backhanded compliment. It was like the label we put upon humans who we wanted to hear from, but never see. It was as as if nestled in that two syllable word came this statement of insignificance.
I wrestled in the dust and mud of that hard.
And so the moment where I heard that tender whisper, I felt the inside of my own heart break open, so that I can finally see.
Flashes of memories began hitting me like oil and water. The devouring of words as if they were medicine to my aching heart. Laying under my comforter at night with a flashlight, scribbling words in the dark, knowing that the things trapped inside could not stay there a moment longer. Using syllables to carry the pain inside of me outside of my body, so that just for a glimpse of a moment, I would feel free.
With each flash, I felt tears stream down my face like liquid fire chasing down that thing that it wants.
It was almost as if I had lost track of my best friend. Where it is almost as if I suddenly looked up and realized that I don’t know where she went. And I’m just so covered in noise and activity that I don’t even give it a moment further to figure out where she went.
But my heart stays hungry. Because without even knowing it, something that was the very language of my soul, has been lost.
And when I find it again, I run towards her with this unexplainable energy. When I get to her, I throw myself upon her in joy and heartache, I hold tight, I don’t let go, and I find that lightening rod of “I missed you” awaken in my insides.
And I think to myself, “I found her. I found my best friend.” That joy of finding overtakes the loss of missing.
That little girl that spent hours throwing her heart onto paper, scribbling thoughts like medicine, weaving poetry that became whispers wrapped in letters, finding the invitations that are found in the unloading is held inside.
Because that tender whisper that called me a writer is the tender whisper that leads me into worlds of words that need to be said.
And I must go. In fact, I cannot stay,