God, bless all the keepers of words—
the most exotic of creatures—
because we need their precision to measure,
their colors to dream,
and their rhythms to sing.

Bless all the children learning to spell,
most of all when they are told
they must always go from left to right
and when they discover that every rule,
at the worst possible time,
turns out to have an exception.

Bless most of all the children who stand alone,
moving a hidden finger along an invisible pad,
on a stage where the judges are armed with sentences
prepared in advance, and it is nearly impossible to be cool.

God, bless the words themselves,
as they flow through history
from the Himalayas, the Alps, and the Andes,
into the wide Midwestern river

Where once, in a book,
a runaway boy sailed on an abandoned raft
and with a voice borrowed from servants,
spoke to a runaway slave,
and suddenly found the father he had always wanted
and the father he deserved.

God, help us to remember
the saints who sit on the porches of heaven,
practicing words like “euphuistic” and “pantagruelian,”
because they have lived in our world
and know that, sometimes, life is exactly like that.
Let them know that we are grateful
for every word
when we need to understand each other
and speak to you.