The Loosing of Words: An Essay

By Jamie Lundsberg

I wouldn’t call myself a writer, or at least not a good one. I don’t consider my writing something that William Shakespeare, George Orwell or even you would take the time to read. But I can say that I am faithful to dedicate portions of each day to the smooth, buttermilk paper in my papyrus journal. It deserves that much at least, for even when I miss my scheduled times to write, it still waits for me to pick up my yellow Number Two and chat away with it.
No, I am not a writer — not yet anyway. But I set aside time for the use of words because I am fascinated, even captivated, by the rhythmic hum of their lullabies. Words don’t mind when I manipulate and contort them to my liking. I can make them say whatever I want them to say, and they are faithful to keep my secrets in the safety of their shadows.
There was a time in my life when words rescued me from a pit of deadly silence. When my world was failing, words, like faithful friends, did not neglect me. Words were the glue that kept my sanity intact. I remember the specific moment in which words became something personal to me. But not just any words: my words.
My hero, my older sister Danielle, was severely poisoned by methyl bromide, a pesticide used to spray crops, when she was 16. To this day, we don’t know how it happened. Some have concluded that it was done intentionally; others have said it was an accident. But have you ever watched someone die, someone wilt away like the petals on a fallen rose? It is one thing to strip all life from a flower, to rob it of its beauty in one lethal sweep. But to mutilate it, bit by bit, until nothing but its shell remains, is heart-breaking. Danielle was that flower, a rare beauty, growing and flourishing, until one day her life was demanded from her. It was as if some greedy child happened on a daisy, and instead of gently stroking its petals and enjoying it, plucked it out of the ground, roots and all, and tore off the petals one by one.
Each day, a bit of Danielle’s strength was stolen away, a bit of her life taken captive by the poison that ravaged her body. She was dying, and there was nothing anyone could do. Even the doctors did nothing. They told my weeping parents to take their child home to let her die peacefully. How does one communicate such pain? I didn’t know how, but I was desperate to find a way to release the tension within me. I did not want to pray since I was angry with God. My thoughts were whirling about in chaos, and no matter where I turned, I was faced with the ugliness of reality with no way to escape.
So I went into my white oak desk, a hand-me-down from Danielle, and took out a piece of college-ruled binder paper. I sat in front of my window, pencil in hand, and proceeded to write an angry letter to the doctors who, I thought, were not doing their jobs properly. My sister had a problem, and I demanded that they and their so-called “expertise” fix it. Finally, I had put my thoughts into words, and it felt good.
From that point on, I made it a ritual to write throughout each day. Sometimes I would scribble out a few sentences of a story I had made up in my head while riding to the doctor’s office with my mom and Danielle. The stories and poems I wrote were my way of escaping from the reality I wished could be make-believe. Why couldn’t my life be a tragedy that I had formed? Why did it have to be real?
I daily fought with God over these questions. I demanded answers, reasons as to why He was allowing this to happen to my family. His only response was “wait.” So I did, quite begrudgingly in fact.
And then one day it hit me. My mom, Danielle and I were in the checkout line in the grocery store when a little boy came up to my sister and innocently asked, “Are you an angel?” She smiled and told him no and watched him walk away with a skeptical look on his face. I took a long, hard look at my sister and realized that if she did die, if this poison did claim her life, she was going to go to heaven and live forever with the God she loved and placed so much faith in. God was in control, no matter what.
Fortunately, Danielle’s new treatments of homeopathic medicine came through. Within months of her first dose, she began to show improvement. And it is by the grace of God that she was completely healed. Though she has a weak immune system, she now lives a normal life and graduates from college in June. I seldom talked about my sister’s illness and the effects it had on me and my family, but my binder paper knew, my composition books knew, my secret stash of scribble-covered Post-it notes knew. Writing became my catalyst, and words became the dearest of friends.
My hope was in knowing that words would not die, they would not fade with time, and they would never leave me. As long as I was able to think and contemplate, I would have them with me. Even though the past nine years have changed me, have shown what time is capable of, my words have not aged, nor have I grown tired of writing them. If anything, I have fallen more in love with them because I have learned the beauty of the 26 letters that roll like die in a magician’s cup until they are ready to be spilled out and moved around to form words. One could even say that they hold me spellbound.
I carry my journal with me virtually everywhere I go. Who knows when a thought will come into my mind that must be put down on paper? My boyfriend, Jonn, frequently remarks how much he enjoys watching me suddenly grab my journal and write something in a frantic manner. He finds my writing quirk charming. There is a persistent desire within me to get my thoughts out, even if those thoughts are meaningless.
I feel that if I don’t put my thoughts into words, I have betrayed them. The thought of betrayal saddens me. That is why I always keep a pencil in my purse to pull out whenever I need it, to show my thoughts and words that I am thankful for them, for all that they have done for me. But more specifically to show my thankfulness to God for allowing me to think and to write, for forming my body in such a perfect way that my mind is able to tell the muscles in my hands and wrists to pick up that yellow Number Two and write.
At a time in my life when I struggled most, God showed me His grace and faithfulness in the strangest of ways. He opened my eyes to the beauty and freedom that are found in words. I am forever indebted to Him for saving me, not just from hell, but from wanting to keep my thoughts in a cellblock. Words are important to God. He gave us the Word, so words are important to me as well. The least I can do is say thank you by putting them to use, even if they are just words shrouded in Number Two lead in the safety of my journal.