Sometimes, there is little to say.
There are those who seem to paint word pictures, stories into which you crawl and find that missing piece. I think it’s a gift really, one that each reader pretends was wrapped especially for him.
There are others that don’t pretend to care extra for the hurting, the poor, or the sick. They just do. The good ones, the ones we all know, they build railcars and pack us in for the ride. We want to give them our hands and share in the work. We want to be hoboes singing Woody Guthrie or Bob Dylan together.
I know a song-writer who drags me into the Spirit. Sometimes I kick and scream. Other times I go peacefully, willingly. We always end up in the same place, though, and there I am surrounded by congregants and saints. Folks who made the same journey. It’s difficult to be that vulnerable in the middle of someone else’s art.
Standing mute, I examine people like these and wonder at the common threads of their uncommon lives. I find consistency in the fabric, each putting aside so much of themselves to serve something they believe to be far greater.
The great writer once said, “start writing, even if you don’t know how it will end. Let the stories tell themselves.” In all humility she believes that a grander story is using her as a vehicle.
The orphan care advocate didn’t tell me how many children he rescued. Instead, he told me individual stories of those needing to find rescue and redemption. “This Land is Your Land,” he would say.
The song writer is slow and steady. He is imbued with harmony that he counts as blessing. His quietness speaks so loudly.
The lives of the living saints, the really good ones, speak to us if we will listen.