The Grandma Who Ate Grass

It was the third time that someone spoke the words to me. “You’ve lost your voice.”  It wasn’t a laryngitis-type losing, though, for which some might have mumbled a hearty AMEN. (Anyone who has been in my kitchen when I’m singing at the top of my lungs might have uttered some words of gratitude at a forced silence, or high-fived each other when my back was turned.)

No, it was a cowering-in-shame kinda silence. A brokenness silence. An I’ve-nothing-worth sharing silence. An I’ve been trusting in self more than God kinda silence.

It was an I’m too busy eating grass to write kind of silence. (Yes, I’m from Colorado and no, I’m not referring to that kind of grass!)

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