This last Sunday I visited a church for the first time and
unbeknownst to me beforehand, they used one of my poems for the call to
worship. The poem the pastor selected was one that was originally written about
a friend but as I sat there and listened to it being read aloud in the service,
I realized they were probably
thinking about God. Later, I reread the poem for myself and was surprised to
see it made beautiful sense to be about the Divine, or Jesus, or God, or
however you want to read it.
unbeknownst to me beforehand, they used one of my poems for the call to
worship. The poem the pastor selected was one that was originally written about
a friend but as I sat there and listened to it being read aloud in the service,
I realized they were probably
thinking about God. Later, I reread the poem for myself and was surprised to
see it made beautiful sense to be about the Divine, or Jesus, or God, or
however you want to read it.
Hearing my own words used in such a way, I felt very much
like the barber in The Man of La Mancha.
A barber is going along, conducting his business of shaving men’s faces, thanking
God for making the stubble grow, and with him, he carries his implements of
trade: a razor and a shaving basin. Don Quixote then comes along claiming his
shaving basin is really the Golden Helmet of Mambrino asking the barber, “Dost
thou not know what this really is?” and proudly puts it on his own head. The
barber, of course, is in disbelief that his run-of-the-mill shaving basin could
possibly be what Don Quixote claims is this glorious relic of an incredible
past. But he learns to go along with it and so must I.
like the barber in The Man of La Mancha.
A barber is going along, conducting his business of shaving men’s faces, thanking
God for making the stubble grow, and with him, he carries his implements of
trade: a razor and a shaving basin. Don Quixote then comes along claiming his
shaving basin is really the Golden Helmet of Mambrino asking the barber, “Dost
thou not know what this really is?” and proudly puts it on his own head. The
barber, of course, is in disbelief that his run-of-the-mill shaving basin could
possibly be what Don Quixote claims is this glorious relic of an incredible
past. But he learns to go along with it and so must I.
As an author and speaker, I never get to decide what someone
reads or hears. I may be able to choose the words said or written, but the
funny thing about language is that it can be interpreted in so many ways.
Throughout my writing career, this has amazed me time and time again. After
reading my books, people sometimes come back and tell me about their favorite
parts. My editor, too, will tell me of his favorite poems. In his case, they
are always the ones I tell him I am thinking of taking out of the manuscript
before he passionately protests that I leave them in. Without fail. To me, some
of the poems people tell me they love, the ones that really speak to them, come
across to me as somewhat trite, simple, not the ones I expected to make the
most impact — and they are never my own favorites. They are the ones that were
extraordinarily personal, when I was really talking to myself, or expressing an
emotion or thoughts even I didn’t truly understand, the ones that teach me more
later on than they did at the time they were written.
reads or hears. I may be able to choose the words said or written, but the
funny thing about language is that it can be interpreted in so many ways.
Throughout my writing career, this has amazed me time and time again. After
reading my books, people sometimes come back and tell me about their favorite
parts. My editor, too, will tell me of his favorite poems. In his case, they
are always the ones I tell him I am thinking of taking out of the manuscript
before he passionately protests that I leave them in. Without fail. To me, some
of the poems people tell me they love, the ones that really speak to them, come
across to me as somewhat trite, simple, not the ones I expected to make the
most impact — and they are never my own favorites. They are the ones that were
extraordinarily personal, when I was really talking to myself, or expressing an
emotion or thoughts even I didn’t truly understand, the ones that teach me more
later on than they did at the time they were written.
I would brush this off simply as different tastes but it
happens time and time again. Someone will tell me a title and I’ll go look it
up and think, “Really?” I begin to doubt my own skill if the poems I love and
want to publish are not the ones that speak into other people’s lives. It’s the
ones I’m hesitant to publish, that just come out, that aren’t technically well
done that people keep coming back to mention. Bless my editor for making me
keep them in. Bless some of my friends for telling me as one once did when I
was thinking of keeping a poem private, “You speak for us all. Publish it.” It
seems the deeper I go, the more honest I am with my own struggles, the more God
can use the words spoken to reach the struggles of others. There are some
writings that simply do need to stay private, some poems are simply badly
written and never see the light of day except for my own joy in writing them.
But there are those in between that make it onto the printed page and it is
these that seem to speak the loudest into the lives of readers.
happens time and time again. Someone will tell me a title and I’ll go look it
up and think, “Really?” I begin to doubt my own skill if the poems I love and
want to publish are not the ones that speak into other people’s lives. It’s the
ones I’m hesitant to publish, that just come out, that aren’t technically well
done that people keep coming back to mention. Bless my editor for making me
keep them in. Bless some of my friends for telling me as one once did when I
was thinking of keeping a poem private, “You speak for us all. Publish it.” It
seems the deeper I go, the more honest I am with my own struggles, the more God
can use the words spoken to reach the struggles of others. There are some
writings that simply do need to stay private, some poems are simply badly
written and never see the light of day except for my own joy in writing them.
But there are those in between that make it onto the printed page and it is
these that seem to speak the loudest into the lives of readers.
I am as puzzled as the barber. I hear people’s words and I
look at God with disbelief and bewilderment. Could this shaving basin, this
basic tool of my trade, really be the Golden Helmet of Mambrino? Could these
words I write really mean more than I could ever imagine when writing them?
Even when I meant to write about something else? Does God take whatever I’m
writing about and use it with gleeful abandon, changing the meaning like a
kaleidoscope of color for whoever is looking through the viewfinder at the time?
Can God do that?
look at God with disbelief and bewilderment. Could this shaving basin, this
basic tool of my trade, really be the Golden Helmet of Mambrino? Could these
words I write really mean more than I could ever imagine when writing them?
Even when I meant to write about something else? Does God take whatever I’m
writing about and use it with gleeful abandon, changing the meaning like a
kaleidoscope of color for whoever is looking through the viewfinder at the time?
Can God do that?
The conclusion that I’ve had to come to is that is exactly
what God does. He takes whatever we are, whatever we do, and calls them golden
helmets. What we call ordinary, he calls extraordinary. What we meant for one
thing, he uses for another, beyond the purpose we had for it, God uses it for a
larger one.
what God does. He takes whatever we are, whatever we do, and calls them golden
helmets. What we call ordinary, he calls extraordinary. What we meant for one
thing, he uses for another, beyond the purpose we had for it, God uses it for a
larger one.
So I am a writer and I am a speaker and I love what I do.
But it is times like this when I remember that it is not my skill that counts.
It is not even my intention. Though I don’t understand how my razor and shaving
basin can truly be a golden helmet, that is what God calls it and since I also
recognize God knows a bit more that I do, I have to agree. So I will keep
plying my trade, being the best barber I can be, knowing that God is using this
most basic of shaving basins for a glory and purpose that I could have never
foreseen. He says it matters and in trust and faith, I agree.
But it is times like this when I remember that it is not my skill that counts.
It is not even my intention. Though I don’t understand how my razor and shaving
basin can truly be a golden helmet, that is what God calls it and since I also
recognize God knows a bit more that I do, I have to agree. So I will keep
plying my trade, being the best barber I can be, knowing that God is using this
most basic of shaving basins for a glory and purpose that I could have never
foreseen. He says it matters and in trust and faith, I agree.