Having a passion for something means that it propels and renews itself. You don't have to force it. I don't have to force myself to write. I don't need some epiphany or juvenile drama to drive that. I don't need an ulterior motive. They aren't my style anyway.
No, I write for me and me alone. The grittiness and the weight of every word I convey serve a solitary purpose: to get them off my chest. It's cathartic, and it's a blessing. My voice is something God-given, something He instilled in me. It's something I don't have to question, a constant in my crazy life, much like my relationship with Him.
Words can harm us, and words can heal us. They can start something, and they can finish it. They're so beautiful and, at the same time, so dangerous, especially for those who don't know how to use them properly, or worse, for those who use them solely to manipulate, to hurt.
This week in church, we learned about the Tower of Babel, the place where God first distributed the various languages of the world:
And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other languages, as the Spirit gave them utterance. (Acts 2:3)
Each of the men present at this event were endowed with the gift of language. Regardless of what nation their native tongue was to represent, that gift was blessed by the Holy Spirit of God.
How selfish is it then to abuse this gift over bitterness? How wasteful is it to use God's blessing as a weapon?
I personally had to consider this and apply it to my own life. There's a strength that comes with restraint, with respect for God and His blessings. I've come to the realization that if silence is the only way to preserve this holy gift, so be it.