From Abyss to Abyss

It has been over six months since my last post. Six months. Dare I project my voice from this abyss into the abyss of this deaf world? Dare I put my muddled thoughts on the screen for anyone to read? Dare I let this mute tongue sing once again?

I dare.

I dare because if I don't start writing sooner or later, I will never be able to puncture the invisible membrane that would like nothing better than to bind my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I dare because if one doesn't practice putting muddled thoughts on a screen then one will never successfully put clear thoughts on a screen. And I dare because when I write--when I truly write--a thrill infuses my marrow with one conviction: I was born to write.

I have learned much since I wrote last. I'm not talking about what I discovered about King Josiah or Fisher Ames or the best way to teach ESL students modal verbs. Of course I have learned a little more about God, but then don't we all learn a little more about Him every day? No, since I wrote last I have learned a little more about Kayla--myself.

I have learned--

(Are you listening? You might want to lean closer and brace yourself--this could come as quite a shocker!)

--that I like to communicate. What's more, I have learned that not only do I like to communicate, but in order to remain a healthy, sane human being, I absolutely MUST communicate!

This may come as no surprise to those who know me well, but the import of this realization only dawned on me this year and it came as a huge relief. You will see why. But first, I must go back in time just a little.

To begin with, I was home schooled. What does this have to do with it? Nothing, and absolutely everything. Not only was I home schooled, but my nearest sibling is five years older than I, which means that I went all through high school without any different colored Popsicles to compare myself to. Dangerous? Hardly. I was extremely self-motivated in my studies and I still had a social life, so really the lack of comparison was good for me.

After I graduated high school, I started attending a non accredited Bible institute (sibs, friends, etc., bear with me, I have to at least pretend that someone who doesn't know me is reading). To say it was a small school would be an understatement; still, going from a class of one to twenty-six was a phenomenal percentage increase. Now I had peers in school with me, and it wasn't long before I could pick out those who liked to write a lot and those who didn't. Still, I was pretty blissful yet, and really didn't bother comparing myself very much. Sure, I liked to talk in class and give long testimonies and write long papers, but so did a lot of other people. I was nobody unusual, and I was happy that way.

In my second year of Bible school, the class size dropped from twenty-four to nine or ten. In my third year, we dropped to eight. With a class that size, there is no hiding. Your strengths and weaknesses are exposed for all to see. What's more, it seemed as if each class was progressively less . . . loquacious. Now, I have a high respect for those who can use two words to say what I would say in twenty, and I definitely believe there is value in silence. However, while the class tendencies changed, I didn't. If anything, I talked more to make up for the absence of all the other testimonies and goofy stories. I did my best to improve my writing by cutting out unnecessary words, but still my papers were invariably the longest.

Of course, in a class that small, we all earned our own reputations. The funny one. The quiet one. The "weather is always beautiful" one. My reputation became obvious when one of our teachers was assigning a short story to write and he emphasized that we didn't have to write a novel.

Everyone was looking at me. Or so it seemed.

I didn't mind at first. Somebody had to write the longest papers, and since I love to write, it may as well have been me. But after awhile it started to color my perception like a drippy sink spreading a rust stain. A knowing look thrown at me with a grin. A fake bet on the longest testimony. An observation on the value of conciseness. As much as I laughed and agreed with each loving implication, little by little a feeling of inferiority crept in. For some reason, the fact that I couldn't express a thousand thoughts in twenty words or that I couldn't limit my thankful list of thirty things down to two made me feel like an outsider. Not that I thought so in so many words, but the idea was there under the surface.

But, after several moments, that started to change. Perhaps the prologue was written when I tossed my fears to a Higher Power and shared things with my mom that I had never dared share before then. Perhaps a chapter was written as I had a conversation in the dark with a friend, or as I lay at night, reflecting and pouring out my heart to One who was listening. However it happened, it happened.

I realized that I liked to communicate--that I HAD to communicate. And that God had made me this way. It was no accident.

Suddenly, it all started making sense. Why else do I have to skip to my next door dorm neighbor and burst upon them with some random funny thought I'd just had? Why else do I increasingly scribble in that journal of mine? Why else do I have to write down everything I think of in reflection papers? Why do I have to tell my mom or someone almost everything I've done that day? Why do I have to talk out my frustrations before I can let them go for good? Why else do I have to tell everyone in meeting everything I'm thankful for or I will feel absolutely unfulfilled and like I've cheated God of glory? Why else do I not mind sharing the very personal workings of my heart for dozens to read or hear? Why else do I constantly restrain myself from posting Facebook statuses three times a day because I'm always thinking of something I wish the world could hear? Why else has God given me the dream of becoming a writer?

When a student graduates from my Bible school, the pastor (who happens to be my dad) gives each student a blessing. This blessing is not given lightly, but it takes into careful consideration each graduate's strengths, character, and calling. When it came turn for my blessing last of all, my dad chose these words:

"Kayla, God has given you a gift in communication. May you use it to turn this world upside down for Jesus."

With tears in both our eyes, he handed me my certificate.

You see, the Enemy made me think for a long time that what I have is not a gift, but a curse. I know better now, and I credit that to the work of the Almighty in my own rust-stained heart. Although old habits die hard, I gave my graduation speech (longest, as predicted) without feeling too apologetic. I practiced by at least not apologizing out loud. "If you owe Him any glory, better start that debt to pay," a hymn writer penned long ago. I pay best with the currency that God has given me.

They say it's possible to waste words. This is true, but I also believe that some words never written or spoken can be equally wasted.

And so, I return to my blog. My newest employer told me today that if I wanted to write, blogging was one of the best things I could do to start. You'll start nowhere if you don't start somewhere, I've decided. Besides, I am tingling to write more than a Facebook status, and procrastination is stifling. Hence, this mute tongue sings once again from this abyss into the abysmal world.

I hope it's ready to be turned upside down.