If I could sit with a book to just listen and learn,
With an author I love, at a campfire’s warm turn,
I wouldn’t ask, “What can I do to sound just like you?”
I’d say, “What stirred your heart to write like you do?”
With Louis L’Amour on the wide western plain,
I’d ask about honor and dust mixed with pain.
His words weren’t modern. They echoed of old,
Like biblical stories with faith shining like gold.
I would read every story where brave riders roam,
To soak up a voice that felt timeless as home—
Not chasing modern trends or fashions today,
But truth that remains when the fads fade away.
With Dean Koontz, his suspense wound up tight,
I’d ask how he shows us such shivers of fright.
In Intensity, hearts pound. Hands tremble in fear.
How do feelings leap off his pages crystal clear?
And Ruta Sepetys—now there’s magic to see.
She shows, seldom tells, with such quiet decree.
No lectures or labels, no push, no command—
Just truth gently placed in the reader’s own hand.
I know I can’t be them. It wouldn’t be wise.
I wear my own shoes, see through my own eyes.
But I’d love to know where their bright sparks begin,
What questions they asked, what fire burned within.
What did they study? What roads did they roam?
What whispers said, “Yes! A voice like back home”?
Not copying voices or stealing a plan,
I would learn how they became fully them.
I asked folks a question about Heaven one day:
“Who first would you meet when shown the way?”
They said Peter or Paul, or Moses so grand,
Or David with a harp in his weathered hand.
And yes, I’d be glad to meet all of those too,
A day full of wonder, a joy clear and true.
But my first choice is one you might pass by—
A widow unnamed, with no halo or cry.
She stood in the Temple with coins thin and small,
Yet Jesus pointed out that she’d out-given them all.
She gave, not her extra, not what she could spare,
But everything—everything—placed right there.
Oh widow, dear widow, I’d ask you to stay.
Tell me your why. What led you that way?
What made you believe God was worthy of all,
When logic said, “Keep it. Don’t answer that call.”
That’s the lesson I’d seek, from authors and more—
Not fame, not a formula, not a neat little score—
But hearts fully given, and courage to trust.
Words are important and should be discussed
