Wrestling with My Words

I owe my writing career to a 1987 rerun of a less-than-classic episode [105] of Cheers. In fact, you could say I owe some of my relationships, my spiritual journey, my marriage, and most of any maturity you’d allow me to Sam Malone and Cliff Clavin.
That first poem, “Spring,” led to more poems, then newspaper articles, then a college degree. Ironically, I’m glad I didn’t take my writing degree to any jobs in the writing business. Though much of my word wrangling ends up in public view online, it remains one of the most personal and private sanctuaries of my adult life. Intrinsic perspectives, like my view of God, my world, my life, my relationships—almost everything—has changed in the past decade, some of it dramatically.
Nathan Hyde, my Sunday school teacher in Indiana, showed in class one day how the Charismatic movement founded itself somewhat in a random phrase written by Jonathan Edwards. In one line in one piece that he wrote, he used the phrase, “more perfect love.” Charismatic religious leaders and followers centuries later are still searching their way through what they believe are tiers in God’s love and blessing—over a tiny phrase in an obscure passage. Hyde challenged me to be careful in my words—to avoid the flippant and the easy, the careless and the cliché.
I was writing my first book at the time. I began to wrestle with God and myself, as I found I couldn’t type the thoughts I’d been told for years. Even though few would ever buy or read that book, I wanted every phrase to count—to matter, to stand against the weight of eternity. I wrestled with God and wrestled with myself.
I wrestled with my words.
I still do. When I can’t figure out what I think about something, I start writing about it. I don’t always finish my essays, because I don’t always untangle the truth. Sometimes seeing what I think appalls me. Sometimes, I’m surprised at what I want to write but can’t—even more by where I end after where I started. I write letters to my wife and family, when I have something important to say; I can’t tell you how many times that what I started to say fell very far from what I eventually said.
Those who talk with me in real time know that I wrestle very little with the words that come out of my mouth. I earn my immature reputation, my jester hat. Hopefully, I can compensate for those with more time in front of a monitor. But even if that reclamation project aims past reality, I’m happy to find myself when lost between words.