Your voice enchanted me:
Its silky timber, its deep resonance.
I would sit there with my eyes closed
Listening to a passage you had read a hundred times
The way you turned a phrase,
Embellished a syllable,
Or inserted a pregnant pause
Painted a picture in my mind.
The years have passed and your voice was silenced.
Though gone from this life you left me with a gift.
You taught me your techniques, and instilled a desire
To make the written word come alive.
I breathed that life into my readings
My poems were read to others always in memory of you.
Now I have gone to the next level.
I am an emissary of the Word.
I stand at the pulpit, the readings before me.
Through my voice, the Lord will speak.
I fear that I will fall short
That I will not be able to convey
The meaning in these ancient words.
Then I feel your spirit behind me.
And you whisper in my ear:
“Your voice is the brush,
Their minds are your canvas.
The words will paint the picture
That God wishes to reveal”.
©2018 - Leona M Seufert