Shards of Words

Waves crashed in the background as the kids and I sat down for a scrumptious barbeque. We chatted about our Made-Up Holiday and our bonfire plan. 

All laughed in unison, “AND NO TRASH!" 

Then came the usual question, “Did you get that scar here? On this beach?” 

I smiled.

I was 20.  Freshly graduated, boxes were piled in an apartment. The new job started Monday. My first night of adult independence. My date and his friends picked me up, stopped at a store to buy libations, then off we went to the beach. They encouraged me to pick something.

“We’ll buy it. You’ll be fine! In a month you’ll be 21. It won’t matter!”

I protested, but their arguments seemed logical. I had followed the rules up to this point.

What havoc would one bottle unleash? I picked a fruity Bartles and James wine cooler. 

The Jaunty Jeep parked near the beach bonfire area. We walked until a recently abandoned one was discovered. The guys gathered trash to quickly pile it on the faintly glowing embers. The guys blew full lungs of air on the smoking pile, suddenly flames roared to life. We crackled with excitement about the summer plans and savored those flavors of adulthood.

Near the fire’s edge, an rim of red peeled a paper bag. There lay a capped beer bottle. 

I queried, “Guys, should we take that bottle out of the fire?”

Date said, “Na… it’s only coals. The fire isn’t hot enough to do anything. It’s fine.”

 His logic seemed wise. Girls don’t play with fire, I thought. Boys do. He probably knows better.

The ocean breeze grew cold. Date gave me his ski jacket and took the thin windbreaker I was wearing. Our conversation lulled like the coals. Friend Guy started to kick the capped bottle around the embers.

The glass cracked a bit and foam eased out.

Jeep Driver said, “We should move it. That doesn’t look right.”

Easy conversation continued about our futures, crazy college stories, and again our voices grew quiet.  

Embers nearly cold now, Friend Guy gingerly pulled the bottle into the center with his foot.

Then rolled it around. 

Not too much. 

Just... 

enough, 

to watch the beer foam from the cracks in the glass. They commented on how cool it was to watch the foam ease out of the fissures. The cool science of pressure relief continued. I tuned them out and listened to the waves wash the shoreline. 

POP!

I saw them jump back and brush their chests. They were all over six feet tall, so I was confused. Why didn’t I feel anything in my chest? 

Then I realized my face was their chest height.

I put my hand to my left jaw.

I didn’t feel anything.

But I felt a knot in my stomach. 

“Um…. Guys… I think I’m bleeding?”

With eyes wide, they raced over. I lifted my chin. 

Date said, “Don’t bleed on my jacket!”

"Oh! I’m sorry.”  I rushed to take it off trying not to get anything on it. “Here.”

I didn’t feel like I was bleeding. But... it was his jacket I was borrowing, it kinda made sense.

I shivered a little, “Um… what can I bleed on?” 

He handed me the windbreaker, his tone softened, “Here, you can use this.”

Jeep Driver said, “We should go.”

“I don’t have any insurance. When I moved out my Parentals told me so. If we go to a hospital, they’ll know I’ve been drinking and arrest me. I can’t afford to pay for the hospital. My job doesn’t start until Monday.” I panicked. 

Someone said, “It will be ok. You have to go to the hospital.”

We piled in.

The Jittery Jeep’s racing engine was the only sound through those dark curvy roads. Loud thoughts lectured me about the mess I was in. This was God’s judgment on me for drinking. Now the Parentals would know. What would they do? What would they say? I was terrified.

Well...maybe now he will listen to me. Maybe my opinion will mean something. This scar on my face will show him that I know what I’m talking about. Maybe it will be worth it. It could be a blessing in disguise.

At the ER and in the care of nurses and doctors, my face was draped. A gentle nurse held my hand and talked to me because I couldn’t see. A compassionate doctor numbed my jaw and gave me 10 stitches.

My retelling of the scar story was interrupted.

“Mom! How could you think like that?” We all laugh at that young, gullible, innocent girl. 

Now, I can laugh at myself about it all.

I know a Loving Higher Power would not throw a glowing hot glass shard at my face, narrowly missing my jugular vein simply to punish me for drinking a wine cooler a month before my 21^st birthday. Of course, an action like that would never be a blessing. 

 My part in this whole tragedy of errors is the bottle was an issue for me. 

I should have taken it out.

I didn’t feel safe with a full, capped, carbonated glass bottle sitting in embers. I didn’t believe in the value of my own words. I held no value in my own opinion. This scar on my face reminds me that I knew what I was talking about. I didn’t see my own worth. I’ve learned the importance of my words. If I’m going to speak, it needs to mean something to me. I practice confidence in my voice.  If I’m not being heard, I stop arguing, evaluate the topic for either a redirect or to simply drop it.

That scar on my face is a gift. It gives character to every word I’ve spoken since.

When Voice Matters

Counting Mutant and Girly asked me why I haven’t been writing.

I didn't have an answer.

Sure summer’s activities have kept me hopping. When I’m not running around, my body goes into shut-down-recovery mode.

I realized today, underneath it all is this soul sickening truth: voice.

Then I stopped by a dinner with the Parentals. My faux pas was simple enough. As usual it blindsided me. Three days later my ears still sting from the whispered correction.

Parental told about a notorious corner in their neighborhood: a blind intersection that all the residents ignore. As the story wove, it sounded as if Parental thought both the Sister at the table and I were in an accident there at one point in time. I asked Sister if she had.

She said no, but asked me about mine. Answering was my mistake.

Here is what I remember:

I was 15 and my friend freshly 16. A week previous my knee underwent the new endoscopic surgery. I only used crutches for a few days. Without crutches, Friend drove me home after some adventure. We cruised through that infamous blind intersection at about 20mph and met a 70ish Corvette.

Headlights clapped. My knee met Friend’s truck door. We were both a bit rattled, but nothing more. I hobbled the block to my house for Parentals. On the walk back and the rest of the evening Parentals went on and on about God’s miraculous protection that neither of us had a scratch from the accident.

Weeks later, Friend’s insurance company contacted my parents. After a few refusals, Parentals accepted their offer and praised God for the provision. Now they could get braces for me. The check came; shown to me and deposited; all with fan fair and glory.

After that, I never heard about it again. Years ago I determined the money must have absorbed into bills or something. Times were always tough.

Years later, Parentals found a different revenue stream and the braces plan moved forward. I protested; It was my senior year of high school and my desire for braces was simply cosmetic. My sisters needed them. I was put in my place with a lecture on ingratitude towards God. So, I quietly obeyed. In the middle of my senior year my mouth filled with metal.

Back to the dinner: I began to tell the story and within three sentences, Parental took over and added: “You had a gash on your forehead.”

I blinked. The glorious injury free, God’s protection haze began to dissipate. Foolishly I corrected.

The debate was on.

Not one thought completed before Parental’s correction put me back in place. A feeling of defensiveness began to build as Sister leaned over and whispered,

“It doesn't matter.”

And years worth of frustration flew out in a breathy whisper before the thought even hit my brain: “I don’t matter.”

Sister rolled her eyes and turned back to Parental.

I sat there as thoughts tumbled through:
My voice doesn't matter.
My story doesn't matter.
Don’t make Parentals upset.
Don’t antagonize Parentals.
It doesn't matter what stories they tell. It is their truth. That is what matters.

In Wonderland reality is relative to the one speaking. Truth can be a debated topic. As long as my voice agreed with those around me it was encouraged. If my voice disagreed then I either needed to defend it fiercely or shut my mouth.

And here I am. Filled with stories full of hope and healing still struggling with voice.

Words and Rhinoceros Skin

Originally published on February 21, 2014

It’s all in fun.

They don’t really mean it.

It’s only sarcasm.

That is what they always say. The people who say words that tear down instead of build up. And that is what I hear when others ask me about what is bothering my kids. When I tell them the truth of what is going on I hear things like,

Well, my kid doesn't really know what _____ means

OR my personal favorite

Awww, _____ just needs to grow a thick skin.

Ase a deeply caring person, now 19 and in college. Zany, 18 and a senior in high school, doesn’t simply march to the tune of his own drummer; he has a full marching band. Both are straight dancers. Sometimes the joking was about their sport. Other times it was about their personality. Both bravely faced teasing, joking, ribbing, kidding and unabashed bullying from their pre-teens all the way through their teens.

I've watched both boys filter those ignorant words through their hearts. Because of dance, they have gay friends. They went to an “inner city” school and have friends of all the colors.  The jesting words are not simply letters put together. Those words spoken in ignorance have real meaning to them.

AND it is starting now with her.

GirlyK is logical. Doesn't understand drama or why girls put themselves in that position. Gossip is not interesting. She does not see the rational in comparing herself to another person- you are you and I am me, let’s just get along. Her love of dissecting things and collecting bones creeps people out. She conquered her fear of spiders, and wears them regularly.

I am watching her make the similar choices her brothers made. Watching her skin toughen and not taking a risk in friendships. The reason: whether in jest or seriousness, words have meaning.

Age or success cannot protect us from that word erosion. This week I read an article about Jonathan Martin, a Miami football player. He knew the words were in jest. He understood those who spoke them did not intend harm, but they did.

Why does it matter? Why do words stick to our soul?

Because words created the world. With words God identified Jesus at the baptism. Jesus said …out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks. Paul challenges us to not let harmful words come out of our mouths, but only words that will benefit the listener.

We need to stop and taste words before they come out of our mouths:

Do they have an aftertaste of envy?
Am I angry?
Am I trying to impress?
Sarcasm has a flavor of truth.

Are those words that breathe life, or spread disease? The listener is just as important as the speaker. If our words offend we need to apologize and adapt instead of offering excuse or pandering. Life is hard enough; do we really need to make it harder?

I try to remember these words of wisdom from A Circle of Friends, “You mustn't mess me about. I know I may look like a rhinoceros, but I've got quite a thin skin really. So be careful with me. Or I'll flatten ya."