Self-inflicted Word Wounds
I loved to write letters. It was really the only way to communicate with people far away; as a kid I couldn’t call anyone long distance since that cost money.
Computers didn’t exist yet much less cellphones. I started writing letters before I talked on the phone to people. Seems like that was reserved for grownups and my only function was as my mom’s answering service. But that was before I was a teenager when answering the phone became a competitive sport and hours would be spent either talking on it or waiting for it to ring. Seems funny now that I have my phone as a constant companion yet I rarely actually talk on it. Texting is my jam. It has replaced the letter writing that used to occupy much of my time.
Since I was an only child and learned very early how to occupy myself, inventing characters and places to hold imaginary adventures became my go-to activity. When I learned to write, the paper became the repository for all those ideas and when I started to meet people or relatives who lived farther away than my neighborhood, I started writing them letters. They seemed to really enjoy receiving them, and I collected quite a few penpals as the years went on. In my letters I could be different than in “real life”, creative and funny, telling stories about my dog or adventures in the neighborhood, complete with dialog. I remember bugging my 3rd grade teacher to show me how to use quotation marks and how surprised she was at my request.
Since the recipients of these letters rarely visited us and I would only see some of them at group events or family get togethers, I realized they would never know whether my stories were actually true or the feelings I expressed towards them I actually felt. I became an expert at flattery and giving them the impression I trusted only them with such intimate details of my life. What I didn’t realize, however, was they took me seriously.
Being persuasive and clever with words might have been ok for fictional characters in a novel, but I was manipulating flesh and blood human beings. The Bible says quite a bit about this:
The tongue can bring death or life; those who love to talk will reap the consequences Proverbs 18:21
“…but no one can tame the tongue. It is restless and evil” James 3:8
“…the tongue is a small thing that make grand speeches. But a tiny spark can set a great forest on fire” James 3:5
“The crooked heart will not prosper; the lying tongue tumbles into trouble” Proverbs 17:20
My childhood deception remained undiscovered as far as I could tell. So much so that it continued into my adulthood where my virtual self and genuine self were hard to distinguish, especially when enhanced by alcohol and other artificial substances. Artificial is a good word for who I was even when sober. Even I had a hard time figuring out when I was being genuine.
I still wrote letters to friends who had moved away. One was a beautiful dancer who was accepted as a principal in the Bern, Switzerland Ballet. She moved there not knowing anyone or speaking either of the languages spoken and wrote to me of her intense loneliness and regret for ending a long-term relationship she had with another of our friends. In my letters back to her I gossiped about dance company infidelities and other indiscretions among our acquaintances whether they were true or not. I rationalized that these people were always causing drama and could very well be doing what I said they were. I even put myself into the mix to help her feel like she wasn’t missing anything and was better off in Bern, meeting new friends. I said she should probably never come back to such a dysfunctional group of degenerates.
But she did. And it got ugly. I tried to apologize, not only to her, but to all the other people I had maligned and set myself as judge over imagined offenses they hadn’t committed. I shouldn’t have been surprised when it wasn’t accepted, neither was I surprised when she never spoke or wrote to me again.
Not long after that, I stopped writing altogether thinking that if I stopped, I wouldn’t hurt other people with my words ever again. I contented myself with other people’s words and became a literature teacher, far from the world of drama and dance. Words still held their magic, but they would come from other people’s pens. For over 30 years, the only way I would write would be in lesson plans or on students’ essays. Oh, I could write a mean agenda for a staff meeting, let me tell you!
Then, about a year ago, the ministry leaders in our recovery ministry asked me if I would give the group lessons alternating with the ministry leader. At first, I thought I’d be just reading the words someone else had written. and that was okay with me; that was safe. But it was more than that. The basic structure of the lesson was there, kind of.
But they told me to “make it mine”. What? Write my own version? And then get up and speak to a whole bunch of people? Were they kidding?
When I tentatively picked up my pen to write my own words, I found myself guided by The Word Himself: Jesus Christ. Although I had never written about my own struggles with substance abuse, I found healing through writing how He had rescued me and how He could do the same for others.
He has given us all gifts, lifegiving gifts that fulfill both our own lives and give glory to the Life-Giver. Here’s what the Apostle Peter wrote in 1 Peter 4: 10-11 (NLT): “God has given each of you a gift from His great variety of spiritual gifts. Use them well to serve one another. Do you have the gift of speaking? Then speak as though God Himself were speaking through you. Do you have the gift of helping others? Do it with all the strength and energy that God supplies. Then everything you do will bring glory to God through Jesus Christ!” It seems like Peter is saying that the gifts of speaking and helping are the only ones, but I don’t think that’s what he meant. We can all speak words of affirmation and encouragement to others. We can all help people in ways only we have been designed to help. Even if we have ignored or misused the gifts He intended for us all along, the second we turn them over to Him, He jumps at the chance to teach us how to use them well.
One of the heroes of the faith I admire, Eric Liddell, was an Olympic track champion who gave up fame and fortune to be a missionary in China. But he never gave up his love of running. You may have seen part of his story in the film, Chariots of Fire (if you haven’t, go watch it on your favorite streaming platform). He said something in the film I never forgot and have shared it with friends who are questioning whether their passion honors God or is just selfish vanity. Eric always knew his running and other sport competitions were a gift. He is quoted as saying, “God made me fast. When I run, I feel His pleasure.”
God gave you a gift too. Be like Eric.