Mouthpiece

I never had a voice. I didn’t think I was born with one. I just, you know, never talked. To me, a voice was not a part of my existence. Yes—I did notice everyone else using theirs, but I was different. I knew that right away. I wouldn’t talk, because nothing would come out. I have to be honest; I didn’t always like being different in this way, but really, what could I do about it? It was my reality, one that I had to face and live with.
There were times when people would actually talk to me, ask me questions, like they thought I might actually have the ability to speak just like them. The audacity! I remember my mouth starting to open, like it believed something would happen, but of course, nothing ever did. The person would leave me alone after that. Now they knew the truth. But it left me humiliated. I was doing just fine before they came up to me, coping with my lack of a voice just fine. But when that happened, it reminded me that there was something wrong with me. That it wasn’t really okay.
My name is Ellis. Growing up, I never thought that was significant. It was just two syllables put together to compose a label. My parents liked the sound of it. Too bad I could never say it. I never heard what my name sounded like on my own tongue. As I grew older, voices began to taunt me. Voices without substance attached to them. They would tell me there was something seriously wrong with me and I could never be loved on account of my absent voice. They told me that people felt sorry for me but that’s all they thought of me. They told me I should never have been born. It was horrifying. First I had learned to accept who I was, now I was ashamed of it. Well, it wasn’t hard to hide my feelings, being that I didn’t have a voice. I willed my face and my actions to disguise them as well. I got really good at that.
By the time I was an adult, I was a hopeless case. I trudged through life with no purpose, no passion, no love. I was virtually dead. I questioned why I had to be born, and I began to resent whoever had originally come up with that idea, and whichever genius thought it would be brilliant to make me without a voice. I lived in an isolated world of encroaching darkness. I could hardly even see the people around me anymore. It didn’t matter—they never noticed me now.
One day I lay on my bedroom floor and I sobbed. That’s right—I was finally letting it all out. This was my life, and I was not okay with it. So I sobbed. What else could I do? I wasn’t expecting an answer.
But then it came. Like an ocean wave, it came and crashed over me.
Not really an answer, just a name. My name. “Ellis!” The voice called. It had been so long since I had heard my name spoken, it made me weep harder. Someone had noticed me? Not only that, but I had never heard such a voice before. Beautiful, passionate, deep, it resonated within my heart, breathed life into the dead caverns. It seemed to call to me in desperation, in desire even. No one, no one had ever desired me! I could never have anticipated what came next.
“Ellis, I made you.”
At this bold claim, my heart constricted. Rage pushed itself through until I couldn’t contain it anymore.
“WHY?” I screamed. All my questions formed this one word.
At first it didn’t register to me that I had spoken. I was too overcome in my fury towards this creator who decided not to give me a voice. But then, I began to breathe. Fast, so that I was acutely aware of every inhale and exhale. And I realized that a word had come out of my mouth.
That’s when my world tipped on its axis.
My creator spoke again. “You ask why. Why? Because you believed the lies, my son. I gave you a voice!”
I was shaking now, but my rage was dying down. Could it be? I began to feel something like elation. Joy. I wanted to hear more.
“You are Ellis! Your name has always meant ‘mouthpiece of God!’ So speak!”
“CREATOR! I LOVE YOU!” My first words of love. Oh, how beautiful, the feeling of them coming up through my throat and escaping through my mouth. All I could do was laugh.
My name is Ellis. I walk in the light. I know my God. I know my Creator. They are one and the same, and He made me to be his mouthpiece. You might hear me sometime, so keep your ears open.

A Foretaste of my Novel

Louis showed up “fashionably” late. Ian guessed it was something someone with his wealth and reputation could get away with, and even be respected for. He rolled his eyes when Louis explained himself, but then gave him a tight-lipped grin. He didn’t need him on his bad side, after all. Ian grabbed a chip, casually tossed it in his mouth, and leaned back against the booth seat, crossing his arms and studying that smile glued on Louis’ face.
“Louis, Louis, Louis. Never thought I’d see you again.”
“Well, I’m 'ere.” Louis took a chip and heaped a pile of salsa on it before crunching down on it, still smiling all the while, even while he chewed.
“I see that. So… how’s life?” Louis laughed.
“Better than I could have ever asked for, mate. And getting better every day. There’s a reason I came to find you, you know.”
“Why, you missed your best friend from Lansing?” Ian replied with a smirk.
“Well, there is that…” He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table and finally lost the smile. “…But really, Ian, I just wanted to see you happy again.”
“What do you mean? You haven’t even seen me in what—eight years? And why would you even care? Explain yourself, bro.”
“Ian. I know what happened.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Louis had grown way too serious in the past ten seconds.
“Yes you do. You know, the incident.” Ian did know what he was talking about. But how could he know?
“How did you know about that?” he asked defensively.
“Like I said, mate, I have my ways. It’s a small world.”
“You have no right!” Ian raised his voice in anger. “You have no right to pry into my personal life when you haven’t even been here for me for the past eight years! I’ve put that part of my past behind me, Lou. It’s gone. I’m never ever gonna revisit it.” He toned down. “There’s no need to.” He paused, letting the anger boil down. “Why are you here Louis? What do you want from me?”
“I don’t want anything, Ian. I know how you feel, an’ I jest want to help you in the way I know I can.”
Were those tears welling up?
“No one can help me, Lou. I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”
“It’s not too late. I just need one thing from you, mate.”
“What?”
“Your trust. Let me be your friend again. Remember old times?”
He did remember. He also remembered how much it stung when Louis left without promising a return visit.
“How do I know you haven’t changed? How can I know you’re not a completely different person than I knew?”
“Are you that suspicious of everyone?”
Ian let out an exasperated sigh and put the palm of his hand to his head, as if that would cease his troubled thoughts spinning out of control. He closed his eyes.
“Look, Ian. If I wanted to use you in some way, I wouldn’t have come back. Believe me, there are easier ways to screw with someone than to move all the way from London to Lansing to be near ‘im. I’m here to help you. Now do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”
Ian opened his eyes. “Cus I’m not worth your time if I don’t?” It was more of a statement than a question.
“You’re nearly impossible! You are worth my time. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. I spent enough time with you to know your potential, mate. I don’t want your past to mess with who you could be anymore.”
“Fine. If you really care, you’ll be the first. What great ideas does the infamous Louis Landers have to better my life?”
“Believe me, friend, once I tell you, you won’t regret hearing me out.”
“Out with it, then.” Louis took a deep breath.
“One thing, Ian—you have to be very honest with me first.”

Wall

When is it okay to just be? Why am I not satisfied when I can’t seem to produce what I want to? Is it okay to be unproductive? I don’t know why I hit these walls sometimes. I don’t know if God is trying to tell me to rely on Him or if He just wants me to do nothing and receive from Him. But then, what if I can’t hear His answers? Why do I lose the inspiration that makes my heart beat, that gives me courage for another day, that fills me with the purpose I need to keep going? Is it resistance? Warfare? Or am I supposed to stop sometimes and be okay with it? Though I know the truth, I don’t seem to have answers to these questions. I’m a writer. Writers reveal truth, open up new perspectives, test what we all know. Sometimes I feel that all I have to write is more questions. Sometimes my thoughts can go no further. Sometimes I’m at such a point of desperation that all I can do is sit and feel nothing, do nothing. Is that desperation, though? If I am desperate, am I supposed to show it in some way, to actually do something? Are desperate people passionate? Or are we desperate because we lack passion? I long for the time to do what I know I’m made for. So why is it that whenever I am given the hugest chunk of time, I cannot get anything out? Rather, I seem to be more inspired when I barely have a moment, or when I feel too pressured to actually create. Why am I not inspired when I have wide open spaces? Even when I’m crying out to God to anoint me. Am I not putting in enough effort? Or do I simply need to stop and wait for God to show up and fill me again?
I’ve run dry. I’m not sure what to do when this happens. I know God will show up, because He always does, but what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Am I wasting my days? Or do I just need to hear His call, tune in to His drawing, and come be with Him? Maybe He’s trying to tell me something. If you are God, help me to hear!