A few months ago I had a conversation with my wife Jenny at our dinner table. Here’s how it went:
Jon: I’m too afraid to write this book.
Jenny: No, you’re too lazy, but fear is fun to blame because then it’s not your fault.
Jon (and the chorus of millions): Grenade.
How many times have I blamed fear?
I’m just a shy person.
I don’t have the capability.
I don’t have the experience.
I couldn’t stand up to the dissenters.
When fear takes the fall, I don’t have to.
Fear is fun to blame. It excuses us from doing so many things we are meant to. Addressing them, fixing them, overcoming them.
Fear not, the angel said.
But I can’t…
I know you can’t, but God can.
Do you believe this?
Then be not afraid.
Let God be.
Fear is fun to blame. But courage is called for. All it takes is one. Who will go for me?
Even the infant starfish
that accidentally tagged along
in our dive bag is somewhere’s else.
So many treasures,
gone missing or
set aside for later days.
It’s empty now.
As it has been for some time,
gathering dust and watching:
three children grow bold and strong,
several pairs of pups
playing and loving their ways into
hearts that will never be without them.
A father learn to lead without compelling
and a mother learn to follow without resisting.
It’s empty now.
Each opening is perfectly sized:
More e’s than q’s,
more s’s than w’s,
but r’s and h’s, nearly the same.
The printer knows,
What runs low he replaces, because
What is receive without e’s?
What is suppose without s’s?
I am perfectly proportioned
for the letters meant
for the words I’m to share
in the notes, cards, and messages,
in the conversations and calls,
in the texts and emails.
Yes, even the poems, posts, and prose
are already supplied,
as are the comments, both
spoken and unspoken.
A work in progress, that listening.
“I’m not empty!” says the printer’s tray,
sounding a bit offended.
“I’m perfectly proportioned – to the very last letter –
to hold the words you will convey
with your life.”