Words.

I know where they come from.

The Word himself. The Word who became flesh.
Deep calls to deep and a current bubbles and swells.

I sit by the stream. Roots poke out from my toes and plunge into the soil. I push my feet deep in, helping to plant myself by the stream. The roots hit the groundwater deeper than the stream. The current flows against gravity up the veins and into my entire being. I feel the tingle and the cool, like an IV drip, easing my worry, giving hope. The words flow through me.

I began to type the words. Some good. Some simple. Many words were just…well, words.

Then one day they dried up. They sat stagnant for months on end.

Until recently. The words now roll and swirl together, like the current of a mountain stream after a heavy rain.  I don’t know when the words initially began in me or when they dried up, but now they are back. I feel their weight. They’ve been building and stirring in my heart.

I am waiting to articulate them. They slip away through my fingers. I am waiting for them to pool long enough to take a shape.

In the meantime, my roots have been growing. Slowly. Imperceptibly. They’ve grown thicker despite the storms. Two hurricanes swept through, each leaving a mark, but they could not uproot me.

Seasons slip in quietly changing color and light and temperature. The surroundings  change as does my outward appearance, but I stay here by the stream.

What might the source of Words be up to? Will He send words to be scattered into the world like seeds, like rain, like manna?

Perhaps, perhaps not. Either way, I choose to remain firmly planted.

He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that he does, he prospers. The wicked are not so, but are like chaff that the wind drives away. Psalm 1:3 & 4

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