Ten fingertips down

It’s 8:00 on a Monday morning, and I’m treating myself to a Bom Dia Breakfast at Bica Café in downtown Noblesville. The Crème Brûlée coffee is the icing on a rainy morning.

It’s quiet. I love the sound of the rain. The atmosphere is perfect for writing. Some days just beckon me to sit and write, pushing the day’s busyness and chaos aside for a few hours. I wonder if Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway, Laura Ingalls Wilder, or Charlotte Brontë ever had those days? You know, those days when, as a writer, you can’t not write. My heart has so much to say.

I do not take lightly the fact that I have a voice, and as a columnist, I get to use it. I pray my voice is always kind, tender, and loving. Sometimes I feel passionate about something, and I stand 10 fingertips down, tapping away on my keyboard. How can I gently jerk a knot in the tail of those who won’t listen to facts and reasoning? How can I express, kindly but firmly, that kindness, compassion, and inclusion should always be the right thing to do?

I’ve recently come to the conclusion that people will believe what they want to believe. They’ll stand on a hill and die there, all the while hurting those in their path. They need to be right; they’ll deny any hint that they are wrong. The hill of self-righteousness is a dangerous place.

Here go my 10 fingertips down. I pray, Lord, that the words of my mouth (and fingertips) and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in thy sight. It’s not just a verse from Psalm 19; it’s the prayer I pray whenever I’m writing.

I have judged others by my own measuring tape. I have been wrong. I have declared the truth because someone I trusted said it was so. They were wrong, and, sadly, I was wrong. I live with the regret of those times. Lessons learned.

I stand on the hill of compassion and mercy. There, but for the grace of God, go I. I know the comfort of home, the love of family and community, and the security of feeling safe as I go about my day. Others do not have that privilege. I’ll use my voice for the underdog and those without a voice.

I pray my life is a welcome mat for all who cross my path. I will accept you as you are. I pray that whenever we disagree, we do so in a way that is agreeable. I will listen not just with my ears but with my heart. I may chuckle as I think: you have the right to be wrong in your thinking, but you’re still wrong. You may chuckle and think the same about me. I won’t argue, but I will tap a bit harder on my keyboard.

Sometimes my fingertips itch to say more about something I’m passionate about, but I feel a nudge to stop. God tells me, “Not now, daughter.” Other times, I feel the nudge to speak up after I’ve had time to steep my thoughts in grace and mercy.

If I am quiet as you come at me with harsh words and bitter ammunition, know I have a lot to say, but I realize I am wasting my words on someone deaf to reason or truth. As I said before, some will die on the hill of wrong before they are open to the thought that they might be wrong. I’ve stood on that hill. I’ve tumbled down it and landed in the manure below. It took a long time to scrub off the stench of my wrongness.

One thing I pray I am never guilty of is stirring the pot. My right to an opinion does not mean I need to express it. I pick my battles. If I go 10 fingers down on my keyboard, it is because I truly feel my voice matters and I need to share my thoughts with my readers.

I pray I can always stay humble and kind, yet bold, and not be afraid to be disliked or unfriended.

Yes, I will die on the hill with 10 fingertips down, declaring that I believe mercy, kindness, compassion, and love will triumph over meanness, wrongness, and hate. A loud, hate-filled, self-righteous voice will eventually sink into a pit of manure. The stink will linger for a long time. It’s sad when the stench of manure is spewed on others.

When people do not care about the collateral damage their opinions and decisions cause … Our society has a major problem. Our children are watching and listening.

No fences. No right to be cruel. No holier-than-thou basking in self-righteousness. No boxes where mercy and grace are never allowed.

Perhaps my 10 fingertips down onto my keyboard are getting braver. Is there such a thing as soft bravery? I hope so.

I’ll let my 10 fingertips rest this week. Next week? Well, stay tuned. There’s a hill I’m willing to die on.

In the meantime, I’ll finish my Creme Brulé coffee.

Janet Hart Leonard can be contacted at janethartleonard@gmail.com or followed on Facebook or Instagram (@janethartleonard). She is the recipient of the Reporter’s Spring 2025 Ink-Stained Wretch award. Visit janethartleonard.com. You can purchase her book “When the Hart Speaks” at amazon.com/dp/B0B1C7QKF6.