A-Way With Words

It was a simple question, one that called for a quick response based on personal experience. The halting response was painful to witness. He bowed his head and thought, he asked for more time, he made repeated false starts and in the end barely uttered a full sentence.

He lacks neither intelligence nor determination. He is a successful student in a scientific field of study where he may spend more time in the natural wilds than in an urban jungle. He is, like many in his intended profession, simply a man of few words, but in this circumstance I suspect he was dangerously close to yelling, “Away with words!”

While I empathized with his discomfort, I could not identify with his difficulty. I am, according to both close and casual observers, a woman of many words. I have been told I have “a way with words.”

There is no denying I love words. A friend told me recently he has two songs playing in his head at all times. (It explains a lot about his random body movements during long meetings where the rest of us are bored to inertia.) I wanted to match his quirk by explaining my own—the simple fact that words are continually whirling and swirling through my mind. (I didn’t, of course, because he was telling his story, not asking for mine.)

The words in my head come as stand-alone words, not yet grafted into cohesive thought. They often parade like models on a runway, each holding its head high in order to draw attention to its unique ability to be the choice word to dress a particular phrase. In restful moments, they simply frolic through my mind, rumbling and tumbling for the pure delight of it and allowing me to smile and nod because I like them all so much.

There are a couple of problems with having “a way with words.” The most obvious is that I am prone to use too many. I easily wear thin the patience of those who are less fascinated by an aptly written or spoken turn of phrase.

Similarly choosing the perfect word—and, yes, there are words that convey thoughts more accurately than others—can produce a derisive retort from people who prefer a familiar word to one that more accurately conveys the intended thought. Their denouncements of me as snob would be more interesting and insightful if they had cultivated the friendship of a few more words themselves.

Those of us who have “a way with words” learn at an early age to use them to our best advantage. As a toddler when other children were throwing blocks and tantrums, I am pretty sure I was internally crafting my first persuasive arguments to use on my parents when I could actually talk.

This tactic honed on parents was equally effective when I was the parent. With children of my own, I learned I could stun them into submission with a barrage of words they couldn’t understand. One of my sons told me once, in all seriousness, I wish you were more like other moms and would just hit us instead of explaining so much all the time.

The most troublesome aspect of having a way with words is that people confuse having a way with words with having something to say. Therein lies my dilemma. I love words too much to use them for unworthy purposes. I don’t want to add more noise to a word-saturated world if it doesn’t provoke a positive difference in their lives.

Who has more to offer? The one who has “a way with words” or the one who declares “away with words” and then moves on to action? 

Through a Clearer Lens

Another generation heard the story last week. This time it was told to illustrate the capricious nature of a beloved grandmother, although previous versions focused more on the self-centered nature of one who should have been a trustworthy caretaker.

I was horrified the first time I heard the story related by my adult child who cast me as a self-serving villain. As she remembered it, her daddy and I took three young children on a perilous canoe trip through mud-colored water under a ragged canopy of trees. At the moment when the children were comfortable enough in this alien landscape to remove their shoes, I intentionally tipped over the canoe and dumped my entire family into the chilly waters of a rapidly flowing river—just because I was hot and needed to cool off. For purely selfish reasons, I took three frightened children and their untethered, never-to-be-seen-again, tennis shoes into the turbid waters of the Tangipahoa. Only life vests saved my children from the same sad fate as the shoes.

This outrageous tale of an audacious action would merit dishonorable mention in the Bad Mother Hall of Infamy if it were true in the way it has been remembered and recounted. I would be annoyed at the inaccuracy of the telling if I didn’t identify so strongly with this human tendency to view the incidents in our lives through the lens of personal perspective. How often do I grieve over a misguided understanding of someone’s response to me? Or misinterpret an action because of an incorrect assumption? Or pass judgment based on an assumed motive? I do it with uncomfortable frequency with other people and also with God.

This story reminds me of the perils of holding fast to a view filtered solely through the lens of self-understanding. It awakens in me a fresh awareness that not only is my own recollection often inaccurate, but it also threatens my sense of well-being. Hanging onto a distorted view can leave me vulnerable and afraid. Left unchallenged, it can interfere with relationships with other people or with God. After all, who chooses to be close to someone, whether a human or a deity, who may not have your best interests in mind? Who can trust the heart of one who is callous to your comforts as he seeks his own ends?

I do not blame the child who misunderstands the details of this harrowing event. She was, after all, three years old when it occurred. How could she have recognized that my light-hearted reassurances were an attempt to keep her from grasping the true danger we faced? Why would she remember the fallen tree in the river that snagged our canoe and held us captive, or the efforts of her father to release us? Neither would she have known we had been assured the river bed was waist deep for adults, and that the unexpected depth where we capsized was the result of the snag that held us. She couldn’t have seen my aching legs that struggled to make infinitesimal progress against a raging current as she was held above the water by loving arms. She wouldn’t have known that the day was planned for her pleasure or that every action following the accident was for her protection.

I am no longer a child. I cannot excuse my self-centered misperceptions on immaturity or inexperience. I must agree that, “When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things. Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely. Three things will last forever—faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love” (1 Corinthians 13:11-13 NLT). I am ready to put away my childish view of things. I want to see through a clearer lens, one that informs me that my perception of a situation is not the actuality. I want to stop ascribing motives to other people or assigning them blame. I want to wait patiently for truth to be revealed.

Love is the key that releases us from the prison of self-focused perception. When I stop staring steadily through my own perceptions at difficult circumstances, problems with people and disappointment with God, I can view them through the lens of love. When God’s incomparable love floods my heart and I receive it without questioning his motives, I can let it flow to others with no reservations. Through love I can give people the benefit of the doubt for “Love bears up under anything and everything that comes, is ever ready to believe the best of every person, its hopes are fadeless under all circumstances, and it endures everything [without weakening]” (1 Corinthians 13:7 AMP). So I choose love.

And if the story of my life is remembered and retold, I hope it begins with “She loved well and saw clearly.”

Loving LIfe, Finding Hope

I have come to love her Facebook posts, the ones that appear at the close of my hectic days. She chronicles simple things—the pleasures of a garden bud or bug, a delightful visit with a friend or the success of a worthy endeavor. Her days and comments overflow with creativity, domesticity, intellectual pursuits and personal relationships. I don’t know how she gets it all done and still has time to let us know with such frequency and regularity. Her insights, always personable, sometimes pensive, usually positive, brighten my day. Like ‘One Thousand Gifts’ (Voskamp), her brief messages encourage me to appreciate every moment of life and look more deeply for the blessings that they bring.

If you only saw a random post, you might assume she lives a charmed and privileged life. The vignettes she posts reveal little of the health issues she has faced, the dietary restrictions that shape her days or other private pains. Faced with whatever comes along, she remains a woman who loves life, looks for the best and stays engaged.

This morning as I pondered the impact of her posts on me, I could not recall the specifics of a single one. Their power does not lie in the details but in her outlook. Her musings burst with life and hope. It is these two traits that are re-tinting the lens through which I observe my own daily efforts.

I had a like experience once before. Almost thirty years ago, two other people had a similar effect on me. I was at a crossroads when we visited my husband’s aunt and uncle at their two-story, blue trimmed log cabin in Salt Lick Valley. At the time nothing in my life seemed right. I had no hope for things improving on their own and no confidence in my ability to change them. Life was passing me by, and I no longer cared enough to wave as it flew past.

I am not sure what caused me to share my gloomy thoughts with these almost strangers as the three of us strolled through the growing darkness in a twilight search for deer. I couldn’t see their faces; they couldn’t see mine. I was in unfamiliar territory both in finding the path and revealing my heart. Perhaps the fact I stumbled on that uneven road while they walked with comfortable familiarity made me think they had something solid to offer that I needed.

As they shared their story, I silently observed they had overcome with inspiring resiliency things I would have considered insurmountable obstacles. They continually sought out new challenges. When they had been forty and life was good, they determined to make it count for more. They sold their Pennsylvania home and moved to Kentucky to serve as house parents in a mission school. When faced with inadequate funds for retirement, they had salvaged an abandoned log home and painstakingly made it into the bed and breakfast that was a welcome sanctuary for all who found refuge there. Their stories went on and on, filling me with admiration and courage.

With gentle chuckles, they kindly let me know my own problems were a temporary light affliction, easily surmountable. Through their words and by their example I heard, ‘Never give up.’  Life is good. There really is adventure around the next corner, but you have to keep on walking. And when you find it, even if it seems the smallest of victories, embrace it, cherish it and celebrate its goodness. I learned to hope that night.

It’s curious that almost thirty years later, this couple’s daughter is the one who encourages me unknowingly through her daily posts. Loving life and finding hope must run in her family.

Thank you, CC's!

I find myself in an unfamiliar part of town this morning—trying to make the most of an inconvenient block of time between dropping someone off at the airport and picking up someone else. Curbside parking for an hour is prohibited and circling the airport is tedious, or dangerous, if it attracts unwelcome attention from airport security. It is pointless to snake my way home through morning rush hour only to use my driveway to turn around and head back.

I could, of course, pay to park my car and then park myself on a backless bench in baggage claim. But why, when I can certainly find a nearby coffee shop? Latte with soy, free Wi-Fi and a soul-refreshing hour of solitude. With Southern University so close, certainly there will be multiple choices of places to sit, sip and study. But, no! No CC’s. No Starbucks. At least none that I can find.

IHOP it is. I feel a little bad as a solitary female taking up a booth large enough to accommodate a family of six or team of burly men. Not that my presence is inhibiting the steady influx of guys, all wearing short sleeve shirts with collars, who arrive for loud conversations served up with hearty stacks of more calories than I consume in a week.

The other women in the restaurant are here to serve. The sweetest of these calls out from across the room at least three times, “Hey, honey. Sorry. I see you. I will be over shortly.”  Startled I lift my head from my computer to smile and assure her I’m fine. Do I really look that starved for attention? Apparently, because this same caring soul repeatedly interrupts my train of thought to inquire about the warmth of my coffee and the adequateness of my food. It must be highly unusual for someone to order just a dish of fruit in this house of carbs. (I wonder if my order will make the company newsletter.) I also learn it confuses the system if I don’t pay so she can close out my ticket in a timely fashion—although she gives me permission to stay after I pay.

The experience makes me appreciate certain aspects of the bona fide coffee house like never before. And so, CC’s, I say, “Thanks.” Thanks for

• Saying just one cheery “Welcome,” when I enter the door.
• Handling the business end up front so I can put away my cash or card before I grab my cup.
• Serving one steaming latte with the option of soy that arrives so hot I need a holder; one that maintains a reasonable temperature for the duration.
• Arranging a selection of just right tables, perfect for a single laptop on a working day or a plate with goodies on a day with the kids.
• Offering a tasty selection of bite size goodies, no expectations attached.
• Knowing I always need the Internet and providing it free, along with places to fuel my laptop's insatiable need for power.
• Creating an atmosphere where the hushed tones of other patrons is punctuated only by the periodic sounds of beverage making machines,
• Making it easy to pursue a solitary train of thought or a thoughtful conversation with a friend.
• Establishing so many venues near the places where I work, play and live.
• Being a caring-but not too caring-community.

Leaving IHOP I have a ridiculous need to explain my odd behavior. When I share that I just needed a place to work while waiting to pick up someone at the airport, my server exclaims, “Oh, my. Well, you be careful out there, honey.” Her parting concern makes me glad I am leaving her a tip equal to the cost of my small order. But don't worry, CC's. I can't wait to be back in your cozy, and non-intrusive care.

Light Shines

A friend and I discussed how we had spent a recent holiday.  My own triumphs paled in comparison to his efforts. He had tackled the non-functioning landscape lights along the walkways of his newly purchased home. This was undoubtedly an issue he could resolve by taking apart the individual lights, checking the wiring and making sure all was suitably in order.

Satisfied with the thoroughness of his efforts, he confidently flipped the switch. Nothing happened! Rechecking his rewiring work did not reveal any errors. Determination and diligence failed to produce even a flicker of light. Eventually, and I’m not sure how, he discovered the lights were not tied into the electrical current. Without that connection, these correctly aligned lights could never be a source of illumination.

This humorous recounting reminded me of my early years, ones that showed similarly frantic but futile efforts. Don’t get me wrong. I am not talking about electrical wiring. Even I am smart enough to know my technical limitations. I am talking about ambition and goals. I think that hardwired into every child is the desire to glow with a light that others notice, one that will, in time, make a difference in the world. At least that was how I was wired.

Childhood was the time of assembling the correct parts—loving parents, solid biblical teaching and excellent education. Even in retrospect, I can’t find any pieces that were left out of the process. At some point I was boxed up and shipped into the world with the hope I would light a pathway for others. As a follower of Christ, I wanted that pathway to lead them directly to him.

I was soon installed in the garden of family, church work, and secondary and college teaching. What an opportunity to shine! What a pitiful light! Certainly I was meant for more.

In an effort to improve output, I poured over countless manuals—the how-to books of being a more loving wife, a better mother, a more effective teacher, a more faithful friend, a more honoring daughter, a more committed follower of Christ. I would immerse myself in their paper bound knowledge and emerge with renewed resolve to do it right. From the information acquired there, I would set about refitting and retooling the structures of my soul. It was exhausting work, but I was diligent and determined. Given enough time, I was sure I would get it right. But I never did!

Repeated efforts produced the same inadequate results. During one of several absolutely worst, but ultimately best, seasons of my life, I came to the end of my resources. With counter-intuitive wisdom, I unclenched my fists to let go of my own efforts.

Now my heavenly Father could take hold of my hands and he gently showed me the problem. I was disconnected from the source of power, the Holy Spirit of God. I was wearing myself out trying to be the light instead of letting Christ’s light shine through me.

Unlike the lights along the walkway at my friend's house, it wasn’t that I had never been connected to the source of power. That unbreakable connection had been made the moment I committed to follow Jesus. My problem was I had never learned to depend on that power.

At first it was hard to grasp the magnitude of the discovery. I read and reread Ephesians 1 and 2, underlining then circling any phrase that reminded me I was in Christ. I had been firmly wired into the breaker box of God’s eternal power. Nothing could separate me from his love or the resources he provided. The power of the Triune God was available to pulsate through my human wiring and spotlight his love and majesty.

The knowledge that the essential wiring was in place gave me hope. Tapping into that power brought me joy. While I was in the process of living ‘do it myself’ Christianity, the concept of living by the Spirit had seemed mysterious and inaccessible. Now I could see it was logical and attainable. I felt as if God himself took me to a spiritual breaker box. With his light shining into the dark cavity, I clearly saw the on/off switch. I flipped the controls and chose him.

Joy filled me, power surged, light shone.

I will not be insulted if you stop reading now. In fact, I really wanted to end here for several good reasons. First, because I can’t imagine why anyone would want to read anything longer than this is. Secondly, because I am lazy, and while it was fun to dash off the above writing in under a half hour, it will take me much longer to write applicable conclusions. Thirdly, because I really wish this were the end of the story, and I could declare I lived happily and glowed brightly ever after.

The truth is that living with an active, power-flowing, light-producing connection to the Holy Spirit requires continual choice. I have to begin each morning by committing my minutes, my body, my decisions, even my interruptions, to God to be used as he sees fit. Before I put bare toes to the cold floor, I acknowledge my own abilities will never be enough to walk out what he wants to do through me. I make the hard choice to set aside my rights to a personal agenda, and I give him permission to have my life his way.

This conversation is one God and I must have often throughout the day. Sadly I have discovered I have an inborn, unthinking, tendency to flip the switch that transfers power back to me. Almost anything can trigger the impulse—a difficult person, an unresolved problem, a road under construction or people I love to be with, a problem I can solve, a journey with smooth sailing.

It may take a few minutes or a few hours before I recognize the absence of his light. I may notice it in the effort it takes to be kind or to be effective. I may see it reflected in my eagerness to take credit for a job well done or to use people to make me happy. I may feel it in an emotional overreaction to something that doesn’t go my way or the pride I have when something does. I may be reminded by the still small voice that whispers “Let this mind be in you that was also in Christ Jesus.”

Reconnection is as easy as an in-the-moment decision to reconnect to his power. It’s a lot like pushing the reset button on a ground fault interrupter—that electrical outlet in your kitchen or bathroom that shuts off the flow of electricity when you splash water or overload the circuit.

Joy fills, power surges, light shines.