I stand there staring at everyone. Some are looking at me, some aren’t. Some might not even be paying attention. There are a lot of children, some drawing, others whispering, still others not bothering to whisper. Behind me sit three men, one balding, the other two in various stages of gray. They all have an interesting look on their faces — it falls somewhere between genuine interest and utter boredom. It’s hard to tell for sure.
I’m starting to wonder why I’m here, what got me up here to this place. I don’t really remember a clear decision to extract myself from the flailing legs and arms and crayons and wails for snacks.
I wonder if there’s really any way to convey the truth in this setting. Is anyone really listening? Will it matter what words come out of my mouth? I realize there are many people sitting before me that are far better purveyors of truth than I, and yet here I am. What can I say?
But although there are many others who likely hold more light, more knowledge, more certainty, I know I hold something. I know that sharing it isn’t arrogance or self-importance or any general tendency toward my supercilious nature. Yet I still struggle for the right words. It almost feels like there aren’t any right words to convey this truth. Or maybe just the words do an inadequacy to the subject.
And I don’t want to sound trite. Or pedantic. Or rehearsed. I don’t want to sound like I’m just looking for attention. My little piece of truth deserves more. It deserves mighty words, powerfully spoken. The truth I hold has power, and deserves one equal to its importance. It almost feels as if the words I have in my vocabulary just aren’t enough.
Oh, why am I up here?
Darn it, in spite of my clear inadequacy, I want to share this little piece of truth that I hold. I want everyone to feel like I feel. So, I suppose I’ll just dive in. Try my best not to sound stupid, and try — really, really try — to make the feelings come out my mouth as beautifully as they entered my heart.
“I’d like to share my testimony…”