In the quiet hush of my widowhood, Proverbs 18:21 lingers around me like a whisper, spinning tales of death and life through the powerful words we speak.
I remember the heavy weight they have carried, not just as an echo of faith, but as moments etched in fear and longing from my tender years.
From third grade until the bittersweet moment of graduation, I felt the shadows of bullying creep into the corners of my world.
It wasn’t loud and boisterous; it was a shushed reality where I found myself trapped in bathroom stalls, trembling while pressed against cold, hard walls, my heart racing with every snicker and threat.
And where often the fear that took me by force in the bathrooms was greater than any hunger or thirst.
The hallways felt like dark mazes, where my books were forced from my grip, and whispers slithered into my ears like venom.
I remember hugging my books tight against my chest, using them like shields, praying that the sacred library would be a sanctuary from those harmful sounds.
Yet, the words seeped into my nights, unraveling my thoughts as I lay in bed, questioning every syllable, longing for a soft voice to assure me they were just echoes, mere shadows of others' insecurities.
I remember the childish chant I clung to
– 'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me' yet deep down,
I knew hurt twisted through my veins with each remark that drifted my way.
In the early years of marriage, fear re-surfaced when someone spoke words that threatened my haven, piercing through the love Rick and I had built.
Words which hounded and haunted me for longer than I want to admit.
Until one afternoon, three days into caring for two sick children, exhausted and undone.
The house unkept and supper uncooked.
I remember falling into Rick's arms, in frustration and desperation, pleading for mercy
- my tears mingling with the soft fabric of his shirt.
In that embrace, he whispered away the jagged edges of those hurtful words.
He kissed away the fears.
He taught me that those hurtful words were merely reflections of another’s own storms.
Together, we built a fortress of kindness against the biting cold of unkind phrases.
Words can be knives, capable of slicing through joy and leaving scars invisible to the eye, but they can also be like warm blankets, wrapping you in comfort and reassurance.
I grew to understand that while I wished for no one's approval, the thought of wounding another through my spoken words sent shivers down my spine.
I learned to tread carefully, letting my words be gentle raindrops instead of stormy clouds.
I wish to share gentle words whether written or spoken, nurturing and soothing, emanating warmth like sunlight filtering through leaves, creating spaces of tenderness in a world that can be so harsh.
It is much better to let silence embrace me than to let my voice cast shadows over another heart.
So, yes. I choose my words carefully, whether written or spoken
– not because they are weak, but because I know their weight.
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