when the writer has no voice

A million feelings swirl about, begging for release, for organization, for syntax that will sound an internal roar. But words escape sentence and paragraph and poetry and feelings are mere phrases whispered under the breath about "trust" and "strength" and "sufficient." The music calls and I answer, finding a voice in what has already been written for me, singing more phrases, praying and processing and hoping a little now as I sense a measure of peace creeping softly in with reminders that the Lord is near, that He is faithful.

There are things to do, today, tonight, tomorrow, and I ask for my daily bread, knowing many have gone without. I pray He was enough for them; I hope He is enough for me. If He is not, there is nothing for me, for the only words that burn me and draw me to life are His, and I know this is not something many people say.

I feel alone and I remember another phrase that "one petal doth not a flower make," and I know there are other petals in this storm who wonder too if the sun will break through again.

The rain drops out of the pewter sky outside my window and I watch the mourning doves seek their shelter in the dogwood across the street. I wonder what tomorrow will bring. I am quiet because I do not know and I cannot say. I have no words, no vision, no expectation. "Without form and void..." And God created something new in that void.

Oh, and He said that it was good.