A Short Story: The Working Word
Based loosely on Isaiah 55:11: "So shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth; It shall not return to Me void, But it shall accomplish what I please, And it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it."
Mara had always thought of words as small, harmless things—like crumbs brushed from a table. They scattered, they disappeared, they didn’t matter. At least, that was what she told herself on the morning she stepped into the village bakery and found two neighbours whispering about old Mrs. Le Brocq.
“She’s losing her memory, poor thing,” one said. “More than that,” the other replied. “I heard she’s been hiding letters from her son. Doesn’t want him to know she’s failing.”
Mara didn’t know if it was true, but the rumour slipped easily into her pocket. By lunchtime she had passed it on to three people, each time with a little shrug – “just something I heard”. The words felt idle, almost playful, like tossing pebbles into a pond. But by evening, the pond had become a storm.
Mrs. Le Brocq’s daughter arrived at Mara’s door, eyes red, voice trembling. “Why would you say such things? My mother is heartbroken. She thinks the whole parish is laughing at her.” Mara tried to explain, but the explanation sounded thin even to her own ears. The daughter left with a stiff nod, and Mara was left alone with the echo of her own carelessness.
That night she couldn’t sleep. The wind rattled the shutters, and every gust seemed to whisper back her own words, loose, wandering, hungry things. She imagined them prowling through the parish, slipping under doors, scratching at windows, seeking new hosts. Idle words, she realised, were never truly idle. They went out like hunters.
The next morning, still heavy with shame, she walked the cliff path to clear her mind. The tide was turning, the sea drawing breath. As she walked, she found herself repeating a line she had heard in church the previous Sunday: “My word shall not return to me empty.” She had barely listened at the time. Now it pressed on her like a hand on her shoulder.
She stopped at a bend in the path where the gorse opened to a wide view of the bay. The sun was rising, and the light spilled across the water like a promise. Something in her, something small but stubborn, shifted. “If my careless words can wound,” she murmured, “then maybe careful ones can heal.” It was not a grand revelation, but it was enough. She turned back toward the village.
Her first stop was Mrs. Le Brocq’s cottage. She knocked, heart thudding. When the old woman opened the door, Mara bowed her head. “I spoke wrongly,” she said. “I repeated something I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry for the hurt I caused.” Mrs. Le Brocq studied her for a long moment. Then, with a sigh that seemed to release days of tension, she stepped aside and let Mara in. They talked. They laughed a little. They shared tea. And when Mara left, she felt something loosen inside her—like a knot gently untying.
Over the next days, she made other visits. She offered apologies where needed, encouragement where possible. She found that words spoken with intention, words of truth, kindness, blessing, did not prowl or sting. They settled. They warmed. They lit small lamps in dark corners.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the village changed. Conversations softened. Rumours thinned. People listened more carefully, spoke more gently. Mara realised then what she had never understood before: that a word, once released, is never lost. It goes out into the world with purpose: destructive or creative, idle or alive. And when the word is good, when it is rooted in truth and carried with love, it does not return empty. It returns as light.
Based loosely on Isaiah 55:11: "So shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth; It shall not return to Me void, But it shall accomplish what I please, And it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it."
Mara had always thought of words as small, harmless things—like crumbs brushed from a table. They scattered, they disappeared, they didn’t matter. At least, that was what she told herself on the morning she stepped into the village bakery and found two neighbours whispering about old Mrs. Le Brocq.
“She’s losing her memory, poor thing,” one said. “More than that,” the other replied. “I heard she’s been hiding letters from her son. Doesn’t want him to know she’s failing.”
Mara didn’t know if it was true, but the rumour slipped easily into her pocket. By lunchtime she had passed it on to three people, each time with a little shrug – “just something I heard”. The words felt idle, almost playful, like tossing pebbles into a pond. But by evening, the pond had become a storm.
Mrs. Le Brocq’s daughter arrived at Mara’s door, eyes red, voice trembling. “Why would you say such things? My mother is heartbroken. She thinks the whole parish is laughing at her.” Mara tried to explain, but the explanation sounded thin even to her own ears. The daughter left with a stiff nod, and Mara was left alone with the echo of her own carelessness.
That night she couldn’t sleep. The wind rattled the shutters, and every gust seemed to whisper back her own words, loose, wandering, hungry things. She imagined them prowling through the parish, slipping under doors, scratching at windows, seeking new hosts. Idle words, she realised, were never truly idle. They went out like hunters.
The next morning, still heavy with shame, she walked the cliff path to clear her mind. The tide was turning, the sea drawing breath. As she walked, she found herself repeating a line she had heard in church the previous Sunday: “My word shall not return to me empty.” She had barely listened at the time. Now it pressed on her like a hand on her shoulder.
She stopped at a bend in the path where the gorse opened to a wide view of the bay. The sun was rising, and the light spilled across the water like a promise. Something in her, something small but stubborn, shifted. “If my careless words can wound,” she murmured, “then maybe careful ones can heal.” It was not a grand revelation, but it was enough. She turned back toward the village.
Her first stop was Mrs. Le Brocq’s cottage. She knocked, heart thudding. When the old woman opened the door, Mara bowed her head. “I spoke wrongly,” she said. “I repeated something I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry for the hurt I caused.” Mrs. Le Brocq studied her for a long moment. Then, with a sigh that seemed to release days of tension, she stepped aside and let Mara in. They talked. They laughed a little. They shared tea. And when Mara left, she felt something loosen inside her—like a knot gently untying.
Over the next days, she made other visits. She offered apologies where needed, encouragement where possible. She found that words spoken with intention, words of truth, kindness, blessing, did not prowl or sting. They settled. They warmed. They lit small lamps in dark corners.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the village changed. Conversations softened. Rumours thinned. People listened more carefully, spoke more gently. Mara realised then what she had never understood before: that a word, once released, is never lost. It goes out into the world with purpose: destructive or creative, idle or alive. And when the word is good, when it is rooted in truth and carried with love, it does not return empty. It returns as light.