Mrs. Smucker Obsesses About Writing

I have several times given a speech in which I rhapsodize on The Wonder of Words. Think of it: with funny black lines on a page or sounds coming out of my mouth I can take thoughts and impressions in my head and communicate them into yours.

For example, I can use words to say that I'm cold and you understand that and loan me a sweater. I can be worried about a family member and you understand my burden and offer to pray for me or them. I can tell a story and we laugh together.

Amazing.

And God chose words to communicate to us. In fact he valued words so much that Jesus was called the Living Word.

Well that is all very nice.

Until you find out that we live in a broken world and sometimes words are pretty makeshift ways of communicating.

I write, you all know that. Sometimes people ask me why, exactly, and the answer is always a bit uncertain. Well, I like working with words. And I feel like I"m supposed to do this because there's a constant nudging like a fatherly thumb in my backbone pushing me in this direction.

Mostly, I don't like to think or overthink about why I write. That way, I've found, is fraught with peril and paralysis. Better to do and not think.

Usually, writing is a rewarding enterprise. When I get an email and I can tell that someone precisely "got" exactly what I was trying to say in my last column, that is just utterly satisfying.

But, as I said, sometimes the words don't work so well, and instead of words communicating precise ideas, it's more like I'm cobbling together little forms with play-doh, and someone is trying to figure out what on earth I'm trying to say.

I am going to be very vague here even though I much prefer specifics, but several times recently I chose words that I honestly thought communicated THIS and a few people read them and really honestly thought I meant to communicate THAT.

By the time the words filter down through all my thoughts and perceptions and intents and then get printed and then get filtered through all THEIR thoughts and perceptions and intents, things can go very very wrong.

Which, to put it gently, is what happened. It was horrible. One phone call in particular, from a powerful and intimidating person, will go down in history as Pretty Much The Worst Feedback Ever. To make it worse, I really had made some serious errors in my choice of words, so I can't write it off as just a cranky reader rattling his cage.

And at those times I think, this is crazy. I don't even know why I'm writing, and here I am, putting my soul out there, as vulnerable as a kitten in front of a bunch of target-practicing rednecks, and really there are not enough good reasons in the universe to keep doing this.

And yet.

Would you believe the same day as the phone call I got an email with a very opposite response?

She said:

Biblical inspiration, of course, refers to the power of the scriptures, but all writers have a form of the power to raise readers above themselves. By living your life in the way you do, and chronicling the details in a way that is not judgmental, just honest and true, you have provided a compass to the souls lost in the mall, trapped in the world of Netflix and the Nail Niche, living lives without purpose, what Ecclesiastes describes as "striving after the wind." The power of picking green beans, making homemade jam, camping, sewing beautiful dresses, and being a helpmate to a kind, devout and hard-working man is a tonic and an inspiration to those who right now can only wish for something better. They read about your life and long, sometimes vow, to do better.

I have a childcare in downtown "Whoville." In the eleven years of its operation, more than a hundred parents have been clients. Most have been single mothers. . . most have been clerks and waitresses, and there have been two strippers. At least half of my children have had to deal with at least one parent spending time in jail. . .

More than 90% of the parents have discussed the sexual abuse they suffered as children. They continue to create chaos for their lives because they cannot move beyond the mentality of "victims." Their children suffer enormously because their parent has no peace. I spend a lot more effort helping the adults toward self-sufficiency than the children, but many of the parents have been successful at learning to cook, do laundry, clean house, get their kids to school on time, obtain better housing, get into vocational training, get better jobs, or abandon substance abuse. Some have even begun to study the Bible. I read your essays to them because you can make them feel that the "old" way of living is desirable. They want a family dinner, even though it is more work than McDonald's. Some have had to obtain a dining table to make that happen. They know camping is better, but more work, than video games. You inspire them to be better parents because of your commitment. Your words are confirmation that they do not have to live such stressful, empty lives if they are willing to make the effort.

Sometimes we even discuss "What would the lady in Harrisburg do?" if she had to make their decisions.

Well, I have to say that response left me just as speechless as the negative responses. I suppose I ought to be delighted. In both cases, the words went floating out into the universe and had interpretations and results that I never intended.

And that is terrifying.

And I don't know what to do about it.

How do you do it, those of you who preach and teach and write and sing and otherwise fling your words into the ears of the fickle public? How do you survive?