Words Echo For Eternity

{In preparation for reading this, I highly commend to you a post by the incredible Dani over at bloomingspiders…it too considers the power of words, in an examination of one of their offspring.  http://bloomingspiders.com/2014/08/03/what-forgiveness-is/  }


When we speak, we actually create living entities that never die.  We give birth to thoughts, and then they emerge out of our mouths and live in the heart, in the mind, in the life of whoever hears them.

Think about that.

The hearer is an eternal creature, as is the speaker.  And so what we say, what we hear, goes on henceforth now and forever.

How many words have been spoken?  How many have been spewed forth from hearts aflame with rage, or sorrow, or despair or bitterness, or cold with hurt and implacable with divorce…

…or how many words have been nurtured, brooded over until ready and then spoken timely and certain for just…that…spot?

Each situation, each word is a forever thing.

Words of forgiveness, reconciliation and release are also forever words.  Countervailing forces set, like artists, sculptors, like rescuers and shock troops of liberty and goodness, to surround those words that have wounded, rent, and cursed!  They take those things which can never be unsaid, never be unheard, and they uproot them, transplant them, reshape them, and redeem them.

The horror of unconsidered words can be mitigated!


A woman decided that her pastor was not a very nice man.  See, the pastor had gently but firmly confronted her about her gossip and her sharp poison tongue.  Of course this woman was hurt by this faithful wound from a friend.

She gave in…decided to prefer the company of an enemy’s thousand kisses…and began a whisper campaign against the pastor.  She commented on how the pastor had touched the young unmarried woman’s shoulder as he prayed with her for a husband…she insinuated as he held the grieving mother yet-to-be who had lost (yet another) baby mid-way through pregnancy,  that his arms were around her too tight and that it was shameful the way he wore her mascara on his suit coat, her lipstick (her mask thrown up over the face of her ineffable sorrow) on his shirt collar, and still preached that Sunday morning, just like that…   “with another woman’s make-up on his clothes” (spoken in hushed horrified whispers)…

…and eventually wormed these thoughts into enough of the congregation’s mind that he began to lose the hearts of the people.

Discontent set in, and as is the way of these things, a vote was taken and he was out, and whoever was the next one was in.  Oh no, there was no candidate…just a certainty that the decision makers would choose someone who wasn’t a secret womanizer.

Time passed, the new pastor was months into his tenure, and the gossiper actually was benefitting from the new pastor’s ministry!  She had grown, shrunk, and been transformed a bit more thru the new leader’s emphasis on “Transformation thru Devotion”.  The notion is that your “Yes” to Jesus is greater than your “No” to sin, and that a true and unfeigned love of Him was the power which fueled that yes.  The corollary was the assertion “you become what you behold”, and so the new leader emphasized the focus on Jesus rather than the focus on what is wrong, or bad or in need of being overcome.

And one day, Mama struck!  Bam!  Conviction surrounded the woman in a mercy-cloud, and she realized what she had done.  Her heart broke, as the full realization of the hurt and horror she had authored crashed in on her with the force of a holy hurricane!

Weeks passed before she was able to find the courage and the strength to call the old pastor and ask if he would meet with her…just the two of them (which was like salt in the wound to the righteous, besmirched servant of Jesus)…but he said yes, in fear and trembling, terrified of being torn further but steadfast in the absolute unshakeable conviction that mercy triumphs over justice.

It was quiet in the coffee shop, and they took that lil nook off to the side often inhabited by canoodlers or late night students studying…and there she made her confession.  He listened, grave and tragic, with spirit hurt and open faced and set like flint to not only forgive, but to release redemption…power…transformation.

The woman was relieved, yes…but not free.  And liberty is the ultimate goal of the act of forgiveness, no?

So the pastor, being wise and tenderhearted and in touch with Mama, asked her if he could give her a quest to embark on, which would help her find the peace and healing she desperately desired.  He promised her that it would bring opportunity for her to rebuild and restore and make restitution for what she had stolen with her pride and anger and spite.

“Anything!” she exclaimed!

“Take this money” he said, and handed her a folded sheaf of bills.  “Go to Macys and ask for their very best goose down pillows, and buy 5 of them.”

Five?” she burst out, incredulous and confused?  “Five…why?  Five?”  But he merely smiled and asked that she humour him.

“After you have bought them, drive to Bald Peak Park, clear at the top, and go to the view point looking out over the valley.  Do this in the evening, when the winds have picked up and are blowing fresh and clean.  And then take a knife…a sharp one with edges serrated and jagged…and slash open the pillows, one by one…and then shake them, hard!  Be sure that the down is caught up in the eager hands of the breeze so that every last feather can be born away on the breeze, gone and never to be seen again.  Still there…somewhere… but no longer reachable, touchable, collectible.

“And then wait 5 weeks, one week for every pillow, and then meet me here, at 5:00 PM, and the matter will be concluded that day over our latte.”

Puzzled, a bit tremorous, but not just a little relieved that she had gotten off so lightly with not so much as one harsh word or even a tearful recounting of the pain and suffering and sorrow the former pastor had endured, she thanked him, gave him a proper handshake to show her gratitude (!), and left straight to Macys where she did as she was told.  In fact, that very day serendipitously was quite breezy, in the late summer/early autumn bracing breezy preparation for the serious efforts of losing leaves.

The entire valley yawned before her, from the small but somewhat daunting precipice that the viewpoint was perched on…her knife was a silver serrated carving knife saved for special occasions of celebration, and she thought that was appropriate, for she was celebrating her freedom from her own heinous and bitter poison actions…


Five times the process was begun.  Five times it was finished, and when she was done with the last pillow, there was not a feather to be found!  Her sense of freedom was incredible!  Her release was jubilant, and she was flooded with gratitude to God for the forgiveness of her sin, and was believing that what she had just witnessed was God blowing her sins from her “as far as the East is from the West”, and she left rejoicing.

The weeks slowly went by, and when 5 had passed, there was a crust of early snow on Bald Peak.  And the day arrived…

that day…when at last the matter would be laid to rest at last.  She was early to the nook, and looked up in relief when the former pastor crossed the threshold precisely at 5:00 PM, and slid into the booth across from her.  Before he could even say hello, she burst out with her litany of accomplishment and completion and said that it was done.  And she looked at him, expectantly, waiting for the last completing moment.

The pastor looked at her with soft eyes, glistening eyes that were completely aware of the implications of the moment…for the past, for the present…for eternity…

…and then, in soft and tender tones, he said that to set the matter forever at rest, she needed to drive back up to Bald Peak, that very night, and go to the viewpoint, and from there start…gathering…feather by feather…until she had gathered every last one she had sown to the wind five weeks earlier, and put them in a pillowcase and then put them in her attic as a token and memento of the power of words.

She sat, stunned…horror slowly dawning over her countenance like a sickle moon over a cold and bitter night…and then helplessness, and finally despair as she stuttered and choked as she tried to form the words “but…that’s…that’s impossible!!  They are gone, and who can ever find them again??”

The pastor wept silent and gentle, implacable in the confrontation with the power of words, and prayed as he carefully considered his…tears rolled down his cheeks like word-pods, liquid dandelions of possibility and power…

…and he said “Sister, you have said rightly.  Those words can never ever be undone, nor the history they birthed.  But they can be found once again!”

She looked at him in disbelief and simply shrugged her question of impossibility, and waited as he continued…

…“send words out, your hounds of heaven.  Give them the scent of what they are looking for…places of hurt, places of despair and defeat, hovels of pain and lonely sorrow, dungeons of despair and penitentiaries of hate…and then let them off the leash!  Set them baying and alert the heavens ‘the game is afoot! And then think not of them once they have left.  Look instead for the next one, and release it, and the next one.

“Words echo for eternity.  Words live forever.  The power of life and death is in the tongue.  Words can be spoken, foolishly,  like the piercings of a sword, or your tongue can become the medicine of grace, and wisdom, and health…and eternal transformation in whomever you speak to.”

She sat, stunned, silent herself (and for perhaps the first time ever, silent within her own heart, a holy hush into which the Spirit of Grace could speak), tears finally at last streaming as she understood the true reality of liberty and forgiveness…self-limitation on behalf of another, made out of love and grace.

The pastor wiped his eyes, took her hand again (chastely), and simply said “In the words of our Lord so long ago, I do not condemn you or accuse you…I forgive you.  Now go your way, sin no more, and speak life!  Give birth to children eternal and thriving, and contagious with grace.”

And with that, he left.

**     **     **     **     **

Perhaps that story is true…it is an old tale, but many know it, and perhaps someone who knew it actually tried it as an object lesson, and witnessed the events I have related to you this night…perhaps in another life, another skin, another age…

…the caterpillar stage is there for us all, and then comes the chrysalis, which seems like death…

…and then comes the butterfly.


Know that your words have power, presence…to kill and steal and destroy if spoken in thoughtlessness and quick reaction…or to heal, and restore, and build up if spoken in union with Mama, the Holy Spirit of Wisdom and Grace and Healing in Her wings.

If you have harmed someone…chase not the feathers in the wind.  Rather, send out heaven’s hounds, and let freedom bey and bey!

the game is afoot!

Love, Charissa Grace, chaste holder of hands

(in gratitude, Sis…your words have taken residence in me, and have pushed and poked and settled in…this post is an outgrowth of their power!  Me)


“Today, be the reason someone feels loved.”

I saw this quote today…and wanted to issue

“Charissa’s Love Challenge”

Can you set aside your own priorities, perspectives and passions for those moments necessary to identify someone in your circle of influence, focus on who they are and what they are, tune in to their need, hunger, obstacle, burden, whatever (choose something that is in your power to bestow), and then simply be a conduit of blessing…from Them thru you to s/he/them.

You will be surprised at the result…inside your own heart!

Your inner poverty will be exposed as those areas you think you are rich in…and you will at last understand that it is in the turning away from self-preoccupation and carving out the time and space to “take care of you”, and then turning instead to an other orientation, a servant identification (think St Francis and becoming a “channel of Thy Peace”)…

…and you will find your self enriched, multiplied, and strangely fulfilled and at peace, at rest in ways you have never been before.

Imagine if every reader does this…and then from the overflow of riches does it again, and again, and…

…yeah.  You’re catching on!

In Grace and Giving,

Charissa Grace


If your comment didn’t appear…

SORRY!!!!  I.   Am.   Sorry!!

See…this morning I was in drafts, working on things and on me, and for some reason, I noticed something I had never seen before…a section in my comments called Spam!

Now, I knew about Spam, my blog has been hit by plenty, but the only ones I had noticed were the ones that actually got emailed to me.  Apparently, there are many comments that just get caught, filtered as Spam, and no one the wiser!

(I know, I know, so Ima ditz…shoot me! (please)  )

Anyway, I sifted thru them and discovered several nice comments from the last several months I have been blogging.  They are all approved, and should be published.  But rather than track down each one and write a belated acknowledgement and thank you, let me just say here to you, each and all…

thank you, pure and simple.

Truth be told, I have been amazed to find out my blog was even read…I started it cuz Heather said it would be good for me…and then my poetry springs began to flow again…

but when people were “like”-ing posts, and then even commenting??  I am inadequate in expressing how precious and valuable it is to me, each and everyone, every time, that you spend a little life here in this blog, with me.

I am honored.  Simply thanks.

Henceforth, should your comment not appear?  Please email me and I will find out why.

Oh, that is to normal commenters….you lot that feel it is your duty, your “burden” to pepper me with your “concern for my deceived and hell-bound soul”, you who realize that I “didn’t ask for your opinion but you simply have to give it anyway”, you who are so worried that I “will take offense” and are not the slightest bit aware of how offensive not only what you go on to say is but the fact that you wrap it up in the shit-stained newspapers from the back pages of your poison-pen soul…

you are not welcome here.

Keep that stuff to yourself.

Oh no, I am not talking about those who dialogue with joy, respect and love, from their spot ensconced on the other side of the fire from me but at the same family reunion…just you lot that hide down inside the tanks of portapotties so you can gather the stuff you pour out of your black hearts.

More about you lot later.

To you, Constance, beautiful and constant, my mirror more accurate than my own faint and fearful heart which has for so long seen only the outside, just constant constant thanks.

Love, Charissa Grace


Our Tent On 2 Trees

I’ll tell you a secret, dear.
Let’s make this perfectly clear:
there are no secrets here, this year

has been asunder rent
here in our own little tent.
Pish posh, we have no need
of eating our own tail,
we already recycle!

Instead, meet me here,
just big enough for us to sit
(but not stand, we learned
to eschew that when
we learned to not chew
our own tails).

Do you recall this place our tent is pitched…
on the bodies of two trees that were cut
from the nearby mountain and brought
in and stood up planted here?

Holding us on our platform so high
we must climb ladders, exhilarated by
heights unfolded, to sit serene
in settings spiritual and high
above the dirt and drama?

So many in our times
are bored with themselves
infected with the disease of self…
they look for things to fill
their inner emptiness
and it’s just over and
over more and more
again and again


But we pray we are haunted
by moon-drenched thoughts
reflecting that Elsewhere,
filthy with light and love!

We have the sound of rivers
running in our veins
and the smell of wind
in our lungs and
in our flying hair
soaring on the wings
of our wild and precious life!

We pray in flutes and strings
and we wait answers
like fanfares blown
on trumpets of light
that sound like becoming,
like arriving…

For now though,
in our tent pitched
in the air on 2 trees
we take our tea and listen

to fragrant roses blooming,
to seaweed swaying,
to fish flashing
round rose pink ears
of shells (and always singing
the song of the sea),
to leaves stretching
luxuriously into
autumn splendour,

to singing silence
soft and low and
we finally understand why
Ouroboros so mistaken
is so named…

my mouth at your tail,
your mouth at mine,
and at last we are
our Our, our Us,
with no boredom
in the middles
and swelling reborn
again, here in
our tent on 2 trees.


at 4:20

it’s ironic,
what the clock says
shouting and inexorable
without words.
the dazed and hazed
love that time…4:20.
i don’t know why,
the stuff they love
is just substance of illusions
in smoky vaporous air.

I’ve been up since 2:40,
and all I can think of is
how shuffling numbers
is so easy, and
everyone calls it different…

but that seltzer?
the one on the table,
left from last nite’s
waiting out the number changes
until it was time
to lay in bed awhile and
exercise my blinking muscles?
well, it’s still there,
and flat.

in the back hall i discovered
that my bike’s rear tire
was flat too,
so i repaired it,
examining inner tube,
looking for holes and patching
in that rough and sticky moment
of sandpaper and glue.

i think about you.

and i think about
the patches on my soul,
it’s unwieldy surface
littered with those bumps
and orange edges and
scratched surfaces from
the methods needed to
make the fix stick…

and it’s still serviceable,
i guess, but i will need
a new one soon.
easy enough, just
buy one with money…
this one is still inflatable,
still pushes out tread
and fills sidewalls and
rolls on the road miles and miles
over rocks and nails
and miles…

but rides,
exhilarating or sweaty
eventually end up
in the back hall,
in the moment called 4:20

(or 2:40, or anything, pick a number
it’ll flip over and come up illusion)

and like that seltzer half finished,
set aside because
(it couldn’t touch that thirst)
it’s flat.

i edited my blog some,
worked on some drafts of
poems that were bumpy and rough,
and found their song in the midst
and that made me cry,
seeing them unknot and unknit
and breathe again, no holes
save that one which they sing out of.

god, what if
life was a great
what if we
could open up
our editor and go back,
rewrite those
lines that went awry
unknot those
songs that choked,
patch those
rash tires flat,
share those
seltzers half drunk,
toasting ennui til every
drop was drained
and finished.

what if we could.

did i forget to mention
how i ran my fingers
round the inside of that tire
worn and used to be sure
what pierced it
was gone or removed?

(if you don’t do this you will just die on the same nail over and over)

anyway, i snagged them
bloody on glass
and screaming silent at 4:20.
but I got the culprit,
at least that one will
do none harm ever again,
that one will not
trouble the rough and bumpy
old patched tube.

so i got that going for me.

i hear those numbers
changing in the deafness
set upon us by the great sunder.
i think about my fingers
torn inside the tire
by the glass
and I think about my life,
a tire pierced and worn
over and again by glass,
by wire, by nail
and branch and bramble
and haunted by this
old and rough bumpy
tube patched and patched
and patched and…

i got blood on my keyboard
from that glass that
cut me.

i think it got onto this poem, too.

i think it stains, it colors
all things, i think
i view the world thru blood-stained glasses.

and then i think about
you again
and I blink my
eyes wet again
and i wait for
another day,
another ride,
another changing of the
numbers that all might as well be