When a Writer Loses Her Voice – Part 2 in a Series

(Stop! Before you do another thing, look to the left and subscribe to the blog? It’s the only way you’ll see all the posts in order of appearance. And, I’ll sleep better tonight if I know I am not alone. Ahhh. There now. That’s better.)

My head was a hurting, spinning mess as I stumbled up onto the shuttle to head home. My heart and soul were in worse shape.

I was torn between two lovers: the desire to use the one thing I have left to earn a living (words) and the drive to be true to who I am and to the one who made me (Christ).

“Can it be that hard,” I wondered, “to figure out who I am in the midst of the expert voices telling me whom I ought to be and how to be me? Oh, why did I ever get so high and mighty as to come to this conference?”  

That’s where this story gets trickier, messier, and, I hope, more compelling. It wasn’t what the ninja bloggers said or how they said it that infected me with laryngitis of the soul.They were just the unwitting petri dishes in which the virus mushroomed and took over. 

The beach slipped away, and my desperation deepened. I drank in the view trying to imprint it all and fortify myself for what was coming.

Past, present, and future swirled in a vortex. I closed my eyes and saw her - a little girl welcoming her parents home from the beach. It was winter and prime shelling season. I dug down deep into the bag anxious to see the treasures hidden there. 

I shrieked, threw down the bag, and jumped away from the warmth of the fireplace. “What’s in that thing?”

My mom chuckled a little and said, “I’m not sure. What happened?”

My fraidy cat was on high alert when I peeped into the bag before I reached. Two starfish had twined tightly around each other. I guess it was their last dying gasp after so many hours without life giving salt water.

The bus jolted, and little girl me was gone again.

I looked over at my California bound friend. Trying to cram a year’s worth of that ‘thing’ between long distance friends into less than an hour’s ride, we exchanged bits and pieces of hurried conversation.

She is brave and beautiful and knows about the broken places when God is up to something that must make sense in Heaven but makes no sense when you are living through Hell.

I wanted to say, “I’m the starfish, and I’m running out of time,” but, time had run out. I hugged her hard wishing osmosis between us would fix my broken places.

And then, I was alone to contemplate my brokenness and the laryngitis of my soul.

If you have come here expecting answers in five-hundred word bullet lists of ten easy items you can check off on your lunch break while you manage your Twitter and paint your nails, it’s time for you to bounce.

Answers to our deepest longings are not stumbled upon in the ADHD fractured musings of our high octane lives.

And, if you know me, you know I do not pounce on and conquer a story before the commercial break. I sneak up on the story from behind and end up taking us where I did not know I was going until we all get there together. I live dangerously like that.

If you get me because I get you, I hope you will come back again soon. Invite a fraidy cat friend you know who has lost her voice and can’t figure out where to find it.

I think I can keep writing if you keep coming back for more.

You may wonder why I end many of my posts by telling fraidy cats they are welcome here. I tell them this is a safe place to come in from the cold.

I do so because it’s hard for fraidy cats to feel welcome in this Pinterest perfect, have-your-best-life-now televangelist drenched world.

You are welcome here. I see you. I pray for you even when I don’t know your name or your fear. I get you. I do.

Click here for #1 in this series and for Part 3.

Ephesians 2:10 (NRSV) For we are what he has made us, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life.

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Love you long and strong. See you soon.