Streams of Comfort

In life we can often feel silenced. Even though silence can be good, there are often times when we want to speak but feel that we cannot. We search for things that will give us a voice and make others listen to us. This poem explores this reality and acknowledges the difficulties faced with feeling silenced. As you read I hope you think about what you rely on to give you a voice. Once you uncover it, I pray that you turn to God to give you a permanent voice. He will listen when you call out to him.

“Only the dead are silent,” my friend says,
I nod in agreement as I watch her strike the metal with a mallet,
Sparks flying into the air at the impact,
Her eyes protected by clear welding goggles.
“Metal certainly isn’t,” I laugh,
Raising my voice so that it can be heard over the clanging metal,
With my gloved hands pushed deep into my pockets,
As I wait for my turn to fashion the metal sculpture we are creating.
Welding has become a hobby of ours,
You can often find us in the shop during our free time,
Fusing our next sculpture together.
I think we do this because it makes us feel alive,
As all the worries and disappointments of life,
Leave us feeling dead and silent,
With no strength to speak within a world,
Where no one is alive enough to listen.
The shop grows silent for a moment,
“It’s your turn,” my friend motions to me,
With the mallet held firmly in her outstretched hand,
I pull my hands from my pockets and grab it,
Taking position over the two metal pieces to finish the process of joining them together.
What we do might seem a little odd,
But there is something about the sound of clanging metal,
The high temperatures,
The sparks,
And the creation of metal people, animals, and objects,
That feels like speaking.
Like we actually have a say in what goes on around us.
I am sure that others cope in different ways,
Whether it be through art, career success, or even philanthropy,
But I think all of us are trying to find our voices,
And someone who is alive enough to listen.
“Only the dead are silent,” I say,
As I swing down and strike the metal,
Returning sound to the shop.
My friend nods in approval at the declaration,
The phrase we always say in preparation for the sound created,
When we strike or cut metal.
We know that welding is not the solution,
And that it only gives us a temporary voice,
But until we discover what can truly make us alive,
If there is a God out there that can give us permanent voices,
This is how we choose to live.
Seeking the transience we can feel over the permanence we cannot.