Never Sure What to Say

A response to 2 things.

(1) 2 Corinthians 4:17.
(2) People asking me what I want to do with my life.

Also my first attempt at a prose poem, so critiques are SO welcome.


Our tectonic plates will not slide together, will create a magnificent clash, and they will blame me for the fallout.


"Wearied," not "weary," because you can be "weary" even if you haven't done anything. "Wearied" implies that you have done something, that something has worn you out, that you were once in a state of energy or of tranquil stillness but now you have been "wearied" into something you were not before.

I am wearied of life, wearied of being lied to, when it would've been easier for me to cope with a terrifying truth than the knowledge that I have been lied to.

Or maybe I started out weary, and passed into some state of quietude and peace, only to be wearied out again. Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes. Wearied.


The common response to my statement that I am an English major is, "Oh, so you want to teach or what?"

Until someone responded with, "That is so important. Words are more powerful than anything else"

bestowing upon me the fact I'd been trying to avoid: that it's going to be my career to deal with words on a daily basis. Words, an unstoppable force, spilled milk that's worth crying over, because you can't mop up words when they've been poured out.

This is what I'm dealing with now,


dressing myself in them every day, and not taking them off before bed.


Words, with which I convey to you that I love you, before I choose to bind your wounds or rub salt into them. Words, a starting point, like a spark right before it lands in gasoline. Words, like an avalanche that teeters just over the brink of a mountain--like a breath of air about to escape a lover's lips--set into motion by a butterfly several continents away.

Through which I communicate my truth, upon which I splat out my heart, which I burn at the stake in my search for sweetness, when words of truth and tough love would have been enough to save you.


Christianity. Five syllables, jammed together, with a "ch" that tells a lie, because it sounds like a "k." Five, 5, syllables, possessing the power to make a human turn and run.

This is my word, and they will hate me for it.

This is a word I clamp onto my shoulders, which sometimes feels like a lover's embrace, and other times feels like Atlas' globe. This is a word which, when uttered into stillness, means something different than when it's hurled from a jokester's throat. Like other words. But still unlike them because of the connotations it carries.

Christianity. A word that wearies me, because I have been hated for it.

"Hate." Now there's a word to make a grown woman cry.


Paul penned that our slight afflictions burn for the time being but purify us for an eternal glory yet to come. With these words, he equips future saints to speak up, calling us to action, entreating us to love.

Love--a word I will never understand--a word I will live out--the only, only word stronger than hatred--overused but still containing more meaning than all our lives put together.

If I study words for the purpose of using them to love and to prophesy, to imitate God like a firefly imitates lightning, then I will let the words do what they will, and leave the rest up to the only One whose strength out-powers this force I study, this force to which I have committed my life.


We can draw them out, creating an unsheathing sound strong enough to wage a war. We can hide them so as to refrain from "offending" others. We can choose to keep them written in a notebook nobody sees. Or we could pour life into something by saying what needs to be said.

Maybe words will make them hate me, maybe they're the reason I'm wearied, but our words are tectonic plates, and even if they don't line up, then they'll create an earthquake that's worth hearing.

The End

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