Sorrow

Hesitant fingers touch my keyboard tonight.

There is much at risk in writing and recently I paid the price. Words written are hard to retract. They carry less context than those spoken. Convenient, writing is. It allows me time to think before my words are passed on to another, time to re-frame, time to reconsider.

But fully reliable as a means of communication, writing is not. The blessing I have of being able to live with my own emotions about the words, to ponder them and mull them over is one that the receiver has not had. All the receiver is given are the words themselves. And as much as I can try to imbue those words with the feelings and sensitivity that I am thinking as I write there is no guarantee that they will be fully transferred to the receiver.

Where my words caused pain this week, I tried to bring healing, but there is now a breach in a relationship that will take time to heal. And the healing will leave a scar, I know - a scar that will be a constant reminder to me to not take lightly the power of written words.

My heart is heavy. My thoughts no longer pour through my fingers. My sorrow is for the friendship that has been damaged, for the brokenness in me, for the strain of relating to one I've hurt, for the pain of relating to one who has hurt me.