Linger

I love words. There are so many things about them. Several words can mean the same thing generally, but have different minute shades that add variety and color. I’m such a word nerd; I have a thesaurus handy at my little desk. For example, some variations for the word “linger”: tarry, saunter, lag, vacillate, dawdle. I have this lingering cold. I have this lagging cold. Ha! I have this dawdling cold. I like that one better.

I finally went to the doctor after having this cold for 2+ weeks. It’s been ridiculous. I never get sick, and when I do, I get over it promptly. “Your body’s getting used to being around all of these kids,” the old teachers say in their been-there-done-that tone. But 2+ weeks is way too long for a cold, and I’m not exactly keen on developing bronchitis or worse, so to the doctor I went. My preconceived notion of a doctor was shattered when he was not the middle-aged white man I was expecting, but a surprisingly young and Asian one. As much as I ascend my soapbox about not making generalizations and following preconceived ideas, God always reminds me that I have a few of my own. At any rate, my mom should be happy now; she was starting to freak out and lecture me about how I’m not taking care of myself and such.

But, speaking of lingering, this cold is not the only thing. Lately, I have been reexamining lingering thoughts and lingering feelings. It makes me wish that I could literally call God up and be like, “Hey, God, so . . . what was up with that?” And then He would, ever so calmly and God-like, answer my every concern, speaking audibly. That would be so awesome.

And, speaking of words, I wrote a poem (or something like one) about words. As much as I love them, they’re so transitory, so ephemeral, so fleeting. (Told you I was a word nerd.) Our words:

Our words
have time limits.
Hourglasses tipped and
shifting sand.
“I love you” today
does not equal love eternal.
Our words
aren’t God-words.
Never caused existence.
Just describe
what already was
wish into being what isn’t,
and speculate on what will be
until the last
sand grain
falls.