“She likes the sound of her own voice.”

When I began posting to this blog again last month, I wondered how my literary voice would have changed – not something I'd think about on my own but daughter Kay is literary. What if I found that I had little to say? Now that I’m away from churches, would my words find people? And if they did, would my thoughts be of value in them?

Observations? At first, creative juices moved sluggishly; topics weren’t coming. Was I going to be able to maintain a presence long enough to find out if it mattered? After a few weeks though, ideas began to flow. I wrote more pieces than needed and had to choose which ones to polish and publish. Readership is small but in rereading (and editing) early posts I was reminded that it had also been slow to grow seven years ago.

I wondered in passing if adding recipes might draw more views. 

Karen copied this recipe from the back of a 15-Bean Soup Mix bag decades ago.

Then Friday night while consulting anonline recipe for the cornbread which is our go-to accompaniment to bean soup, my friend grumbled about having to scroll past so much text before getting to the recipe. I don’t recall his words but they were along the lines of, “She likes the sound of her own voice.” I didn’t bristle but as one who writes, I wanted to defend. To her readers, all those words before the recipes (which I too usually scroll past) are entertaining and/or educational. This post included sections about U.K. terminology and making this GF cornbread dairy-free or egg-free. (Did you realize there are fine, medium, and coarse cornmeals?)

“She likes the sound of her own voice.” 

Three years ago, a church member and their spouse came to my office with a laundry list of complaints, only one of which was not related to my autistic ways: I talked about myself from the pulpit too much. I did. I admitted it. So did, and do, the preachers whose stories have most touched me and those whom I most respect. To prevent this kind of wrong interpretation, every few months I’d say again why I did it. Since this blog follows a similar pattern, today you get to choose whether to read an explanation or to scroll past.

When I’m in performance mode (as pastor or teacher) or with the ones I’m closest to, I talk easily. Yet by nature, I’m quiet, reflective, very introverted. Probably because of the autism, I find it difficult to say the things closest to my heart. Writing them is easier. I’ve long enjoyed the written word, prose and poetry, fiction and non-fiction. I enjoy shaping words to fit thoughts, though until writing a memoir last winter my longest works were those required for seminary classes and ordination interviews.

Do I like the sound of my own voice? Not especially. For too long, it was filled with insecurity, fear, longing, and anger. I didn’t like my life and my voice was a reflection of that. I have no formal training yet in recent years people have told me that I write well or that I should write. And I have things to say.

I write through the hollow places in my heart and the wounds that are yet healing. I write because of the silence I faced when others knew of my struggles yet said nothing. I write for the teenager who didn’t think to tell her parents about the bullying she faced at the bus stop each morning until years later and for the young woman who didn't recognize her own worth. I write because I am no longer that person.

It is in hearing each other's stories that we begin to make sense of our own. I expose my vulnerable places in the hope that my story will lend someone courage or hope. Will encourage us all to laugh at the absurd and to cry for no good reason that others recognize. And will offer those who need it permission to rest or to put themselves first or to say, “no!” 

In assessing these last six weeks, I affirmed with some pleasure that the blog’s subtitle “being real while running after God” still reflects my vocation. Too often, rather than authenticity society expects something more like “Minnesota nice” (a term learned while at seminary in the Twin Cities). Yet our true self is all we really have to offer the world. It’s the gift we are given to share with those around us. 

I don't know what you're facing in your life, what demons haunt you, what sorrow or pain assails you. My goal is to be present with you, to keep showing up as best I can, and to help you to believe, as the character Valerie writes in Alan Moore's V for Vendetta, “that even though I do not know you, and even though I may never meet you, laugh with you, cry with you, or kiss you. I love you. With all my heart, I love you."

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