Yes.
If ever there was a word more neglected than this one, I’m not aware of it. And by neglected, I don’t mean rarely used. This word is used more often than I can count in my own daily speech. It’s a necessary part of my vocabulary, and I cringe to think how I would circumvent that word were a ban put upon it.
By neglected, I mean mistreated and ill-used. I mean all the apathy and indifference that is shown toward it; all the slang and slurring that it has degenerated into.
The word no, as I see it, isn’t in the same category of neglect as yes is. It is spoken thoughtlessly and frequently enough, but what follows a no is usually much less harmful than what follows a yes.
Yes is an affirmation. It is a signal of agreement, confirmation, and acknowledgement. In conversation, it lets the speaker know that the listener is listening; that the speaker may continue with the expectation of being heard. It lets the speaker know that what he or she has said is understood and that the listener feels or thinks the same way. In planning, it gives either party the understanding that what they have said was heard, sounds good, and will work.
Yes is a promise. It is a signal of commitment, responsibility, and obligation. It binds one to another, either conditionally or unconditionally.
And many times, before and after the word yes leaves our lips, there is none of the acknowledgement, affirmation, promise, or commitment that it implies. We have verbally confirmed and made ourselves responsible, but inwardly we are ignorant of what we have confirmed and unconcerned about what we have bound ourselves to. We speak one thing and mean another.
I am grateful that there is one who does not use yes as callously as I do. When he says, yes, you are forgiven, I do not doubt that it is true; that my sins have been washed away. When he says yes, go there and do this, I do not question if he heard me right. When he promises yes, I will be with you, and yes, you will be with me in Paradise, I do not fear that he will forget his commitment and leave me, or scratch his head when I knock on heaven’s door.
* * * * * * *
“Hummmm,” the room fell silent for a moment while a student gave the pitch. Then, at the same time, broke forth the sweet melody of Psalm 32. As I drew in my breath to sing, I took in the complexity of faces surrounding me. Some with smiles, some with sadness, laughter and desperation.
The year had been a tough one. Four months into marriage, one month into school. The summer that I had just left behind was full of highs and lows: the bliss of married life and the struggles of binding myself to another. I had tasted the goodness of the Lord, and yet I had responded in selfishness and moodiness.
And he will comfort me with songs of victory and grace.
My lips often form the words of the Psalms without thought; after years of singing them, I knew many of them by heart. These words, however, were desperately needed, and the Spirit used them to pour balm on my bleeding heart.
God had promised me victory over sin, and it was not a promise that would be unfulfilled. But wherever I would fall short, another promise would lift me up: God’s grace, comforting and healing. Like a father to his screaming child, he would soothe me with his gentle words, songs of victory and grace.
Our hearts are meant to sing, to resonate with the words and melodies of song. Songs, often the ones I could blot out of my memory forever, easily stick in my head, their beats and words constantly running through my mind. This is the song that never ends truly doesn’t. (And now, I must apologize for poisoning my reader’s mind with this insane melody)
But resonating tunes are not always this evil; sometimes, instead of insanity, they can bring life. The right words, paired with the right musical notes, can act more powerfully than those same words written over and over again on a page.
And he will comfort me with songs of victory and grace.
* * * * * * *
Home.
A gust of wind blew into the open window of my bedroom, catching the curtains and causing them to tickle my bare feet. The summer breeze was refreshing after all the tumult of May. In one month I had faced the rigors of English finals and projects, ended the first year of college, and moved back home. I had made a world for myself at school, and without preparation it was concluded; I was thrust back into my old world, which I felt no longer fit me. I clashed with my parents and sisters over little things, striving to prove my maturity and independence and yet failing with every argument.
I laid on my stomach reading Elizabeth Prentiss, a woman whose words transcend the century and a half that separates us. Her words are full of truth, and I ate them up eagerly. But as I read I’m suddenly slammed up against a wall with her words:
I am in danger of forgetting that I am to stay in this world only a little while and then go home.
Go home.
The tears flow steadily down my cheeks, as is common when I am at a loss for words. After years of searching, I have finally found my home. And perhaps the reason that it was so elusive is that I haven’t seen it yet. But it is the hope of seeing it, of seeing the One who will welcome me into his warm embrace, where I will belong for ever and ever and ever, that makes my heart leap.
* * * * * * *
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Part 3
three months later...
Part 3:
One clear, sticky summer night, as most of the suburbs relaxed in their air-conditioned homes, I sat on a couch with a thick upholstery, every so often squirming in an attempt to increase the distance between my own arms and legs and those of my friends on either side of me. The thick-pile carpet beneath my sandaled feet did little to decrease the temperature of the room, which, from pre-teen and teenage boy sweat, was becoming sultry.
Despite the oppressive atmosphere, a small woman sat quietly across the room from me, attentive to the introduction of my pastor and youth leader. Her white hair was unpretentious and practical. She wore her summer dress with its mandarin collar and floral pattern. But she fascinated me immediately; I knew she had been a missionary to Japan for many years.
As she told the story of her journey from youth to old age, from girl to grandma, her speech was unadorned, almost distant. Repeated in her story, however, was a simple phrase that she took from I Corinthians 6. She discussed her own calling to the mission field, and the realization that she must follow wherever God may lead:
I am not my own. I am bought with a price.
Immediately I was still. I felt as if someone had reached inside me, grabbed my heart, and squeezed. I felt those words call me, as they had called her, to missions, to the work of the Gospel in a foreign land.
I am not my own.
In the silence of my own heart, that phrase reverberates. It’s hard to hear when I am moving. The business of my life drowns out the echo; the conversations of practicality and everydayness dominate, clamoring for my attention and claiming importance. But the words remain, and while circumstances have led me to stay in the States for the time being, her words still remind me of my identity. They remind me of Christ’s precious blood shed for me, and of my dependence on him for my very breath.
* * * * * * *
The afternoon sun beat down relentlessly on my left side through the classroom windows, making me drowsy after a filling lunch of pizza and pop. My teacher’s voice felt like the sun; relentless and tranquilizing.
“Laura? What theorem do we use for the first proof?”
I came back to earth with a jolt and stared at my teacher blankly. Quickly I tried to find the proof we were on.
“Laura?”
I was dumb and mute, and I failed to respond. The heads of my classmates craned forward to see my face, to figure out why I wasn’t responding. She always knows the answer, they were thinking.
“Theorem 5.1,” I muttered finally, in a desperate attempt to get the eyes of the class off of my back.
“Hmm.” The teacher smiled. “Nope, it’s 6.1,” she looked cheerfully down at me. “You see, class, Laura really isn’t that smart.”
The class laughed, and I, in another attempt to blend in, laughed as well. She had said it with such a complete lack of spite or meanness that there was nothing else for me to do. I laughed again after class when I shared the story with the girls whose lockers were next to mine, and again at dinner when I related the story to my family.
Laura really isn’t that smart.
It’s okay if you laugh; it really is ridiculous. It’s one of those moments that hopeful teachers like myself pray every day to avoid, and gasp in shock when they hear that a teacher has actually said something so demeaning to a student. I can’t say my life has been scarred forever because of those words, and I’m sure that teacher will be happy to know that. I can say, though, that those words echo back every so often, causing me to share the story with fellow educators, who are sure to laugh and express dismay. I like making people smile.
But despite how many times I’ve shared the story, my heart continues to pinch a little. And I’m reminded of the resonating power of words, especially ones spoken without thought.
* * * * * * *
With this ring, I thee wed.
Staring at the paper in front of me, I felt incapable of making any decisions at the moment, least of all one of such importance as wedding vows. My pastor had given Ryan and me a sample of traditional and more modern vows. The small voice said inside me, you’re an English major, dummy. Shouldn’t you be able to put together something beautiful and poetic that captures the moment forever? Yet I felt completely inadequate and unable to face the task. Not to mention the time factor; when would I find time to pour into wedding vows when I felt as if my classes were an avalanche, simply waiting for my sneeze before they poured down the mountain, crushing me beneath their weight?
As usual when unable to make a decision, I picked up the phone.
“What are we going to do?” I moaned.
“Why wouldn’t we just use the traditional vows?” Ryan asked, as if there were no issue at all.
“Don’t you want our vows to be unique? To stand out? I don’t want the same old same old.”
“Uh, no.”
Of course not. Always ready to be new and innovative, Ryan would revert to tradition on such a significant event in our lives.
Thankfully, I had a fiancé (and now, a husband) who not only was able to make a decision, but also was able to recognize the value of tradition. The repetition of words often cause them to loose their meaning. How many times have I said “I’m sorry,” with each new utterance bringing me closer to not being sorry than before? That danger occurs with ceremonial words, as well. But while these words can slam the door on all imagination and hope, they can also open it to life and possibility. There is something sacred about ceremonial words, about uttering with my husband the phrases that I had heard from the time I was a little girl – almost sacrilegiously, such as the incompetent priest in The Princess Bride, and reverently, such as the clergyman in Pride and Prejudice. The act of repeating together words that had been uttered for hundreds and hundreds of years, by men and women of many shapes, sizes, ages, geographic and cultural backgrounds, only increased for me the intensely communal act that taking my marriage vows was. With those words, I not only joined myself to one man for the rest of my life, but also to a community of men and women who had gone before me, who had walked the path of marriage, taking up its burdens and joys, ending both faithfully and unfaithfully. With those words, I made a promise that must resonate with me as long as I still draw breath, for it is not only within my own heart that it was spoken, but also within the hearts of the hundred and eighty people who gave their assent to our marriage.
As long as we both shall live.
* * * * * * *
Part 3:
One clear, sticky summer night, as most of the suburbs relaxed in their air-conditioned homes, I sat on a couch with a thick upholstery, every so often squirming in an attempt to increase the distance between my own arms and legs and those of my friends on either side of me. The thick-pile carpet beneath my sandaled feet did little to decrease the temperature of the room, which, from pre-teen and teenage boy sweat, was becoming sultry.
Despite the oppressive atmosphere, a small woman sat quietly across the room from me, attentive to the introduction of my pastor and youth leader. Her white hair was unpretentious and practical. She wore her summer dress with its mandarin collar and floral pattern. But she fascinated me immediately; I knew she had been a missionary to Japan for many years.
As she told the story of her journey from youth to old age, from girl to grandma, her speech was unadorned, almost distant. Repeated in her story, however, was a simple phrase that she took from I Corinthians 6. She discussed her own calling to the mission field, and the realization that she must follow wherever God may lead:
I am not my own. I am bought with a price.
Immediately I was still. I felt as if someone had reached inside me, grabbed my heart, and squeezed. I felt those words call me, as they had called her, to missions, to the work of the Gospel in a foreign land.
I am not my own.
In the silence of my own heart, that phrase reverberates. It’s hard to hear when I am moving. The business of my life drowns out the echo; the conversations of practicality and everydayness dominate, clamoring for my attention and claiming importance. But the words remain, and while circumstances have led me to stay in the States for the time being, her words still remind me of my identity. They remind me of Christ’s precious blood shed for me, and of my dependence on him for my very breath.
* * * * * * *
The afternoon sun beat down relentlessly on my left side through the classroom windows, making me drowsy after a filling lunch of pizza and pop. My teacher’s voice felt like the sun; relentless and tranquilizing.
“Laura? What theorem do we use for the first proof?”
I came back to earth with a jolt and stared at my teacher blankly. Quickly I tried to find the proof we were on.
“Laura?”
I was dumb and mute, and I failed to respond. The heads of my classmates craned forward to see my face, to figure out why I wasn’t responding. She always knows the answer, they were thinking.
“Theorem 5.1,” I muttered finally, in a desperate attempt to get the eyes of the class off of my back.
“Hmm.” The teacher smiled. “Nope, it’s 6.1,” she looked cheerfully down at me. “You see, class, Laura really isn’t that smart.”
The class laughed, and I, in another attempt to blend in, laughed as well. She had said it with such a complete lack of spite or meanness that there was nothing else for me to do. I laughed again after class when I shared the story with the girls whose lockers were next to mine, and again at dinner when I related the story to my family.
Laura really isn’t that smart.
It’s okay if you laugh; it really is ridiculous. It’s one of those moments that hopeful teachers like myself pray every day to avoid, and gasp in shock when they hear that a teacher has actually said something so demeaning to a student. I can’t say my life has been scarred forever because of those words, and I’m sure that teacher will be happy to know that. I can say, though, that those words echo back every so often, causing me to share the story with fellow educators, who are sure to laugh and express dismay. I like making people smile.
But despite how many times I’ve shared the story, my heart continues to pinch a little. And I’m reminded of the resonating power of words, especially ones spoken without thought.
* * * * * * *
With this ring, I thee wed.
Staring at the paper in front of me, I felt incapable of making any decisions at the moment, least of all one of such importance as wedding vows. My pastor had given Ryan and me a sample of traditional and more modern vows. The small voice said inside me, you’re an English major, dummy. Shouldn’t you be able to put together something beautiful and poetic that captures the moment forever? Yet I felt completely inadequate and unable to face the task. Not to mention the time factor; when would I find time to pour into wedding vows when I felt as if my classes were an avalanche, simply waiting for my sneeze before they poured down the mountain, crushing me beneath their weight?
As usual when unable to make a decision, I picked up the phone.
“What are we going to do?” I moaned.
“Why wouldn’t we just use the traditional vows?” Ryan asked, as if there were no issue at all.
“Don’t you want our vows to be unique? To stand out? I don’t want the same old same old.”
“Uh, no.”
Of course not. Always ready to be new and innovative, Ryan would revert to tradition on such a significant event in our lives.
Thankfully, I had a fiancé (and now, a husband) who not only was able to make a decision, but also was able to recognize the value of tradition. The repetition of words often cause them to loose their meaning. How many times have I said “I’m sorry,” with each new utterance bringing me closer to not being sorry than before? That danger occurs with ceremonial words, as well. But while these words can slam the door on all imagination and hope, they can also open it to life and possibility. There is something sacred about ceremonial words, about uttering with my husband the phrases that I had heard from the time I was a little girl – almost sacrilegiously, such as the incompetent priest in The Princess Bride, and reverently, such as the clergyman in Pride and Prejudice. The act of repeating together words that had been uttered for hundreds and hundreds of years, by men and women of many shapes, sizes, ages, geographic and cultural backgrounds, only increased for me the intensely communal act that taking my marriage vows was. With those words, I not only joined myself to one man for the rest of my life, but also to a community of men and women who had gone before me, who had walked the path of marriage, taking up its burdens and joys, ending both faithfully and unfaithfully. With those words, I made a promise that must resonate with me as long as I still draw breath, for it is not only within my own heart that it was spoken, but also within the hearts of the hundred and eighty people who gave their assent to our marriage.
As long as we both shall live.
* * * * * * *
Thursday, May 08, 2008
"Echoes," pt. 2
Here's part two...you'll have to wait a week for part three -- I'm going on a canoe trip to Minnesota!
At eleven years old my world was rocked like the carefully balanced tray carried by a server. I had meticulously placed each platter and drink, each friend and family member, on my tray, and now I was knocked off-balance. I struggled frantically to grasp at the sliding dishes, but with no success. My diligence had come to naught; I was left empty-handed and embarrassed.
Hugging myself in the brisk fall air, I stood outside our new home in Pittsburgh, 400 miles away from Baltimore. 400 miles away from Nan. Away from Shelby, my best friend and confidante.
Goodbye.
I looked at the old, brown shutters and compared them to the freshly painted black ones of my old house. The huge pine tree in front of the townhouse covered up the big window on the first floor and almost the entire half of the house. Cold and hostile, it seemed to echo the fact of its rental nature: not a home where the floorboards are worn out with your regular steps or the wall of the bedroom dented where you continually slammed open your door year after year. Here, I was a guest.
At thirteen, I had regained some of my lost confidence – Nan, though far away, still poured out her grandma-love to me and I wrote letters to her every week. She came to visit each summer, bringing Shelby with her. It was my favorite week of the year. Nan would bring peach buns and crabmeat; Shelby and I would climb under the covers of the same double bed to whisper secrets and dreams, and, for a brief moment, I could almost imagine that everything was the way it always was, that I had a place to belong.
Goodbye!
Again, my Nan and Shelby would get in Nan’s car and return home to Baltimore. After a couple of summers, though, Shelby wouldn’t come back when Nan did.
Goodbye!
I have said this word often in my short life, and each time it feels excruciating. Each time it feels as if my tray has been knocked over, just after I’ve finally picked up the pieces. This simple phrase contains the word “good,” and yet nothing about saying it seems good. It seems only to bring heartache and loneliness and desire for a time, a place that was, but is no more.
At eleven years old my world was rocked like the carefully balanced tray carried by a server. I had meticulously placed each platter and drink, each friend and family member, on my tray, and now I was knocked off-balance. I struggled frantically to grasp at the sliding dishes, but with no success. My diligence had come to naught; I was left empty-handed and embarrassed.
Hugging myself in the brisk fall air, I stood outside our new home in Pittsburgh, 400 miles away from Baltimore. 400 miles away from Nan. Away from Shelby, my best friend and confidante.
Goodbye.
I looked at the old, brown shutters and compared them to the freshly painted black ones of my old house. The huge pine tree in front of the townhouse covered up the big window on the first floor and almost the entire half of the house. Cold and hostile, it seemed to echo the fact of its rental nature: not a home where the floorboards are worn out with your regular steps or the wall of the bedroom dented where you continually slammed open your door year after year. Here, I was a guest.
At thirteen, I had regained some of my lost confidence – Nan, though far away, still poured out her grandma-love to me and I wrote letters to her every week. She came to visit each summer, bringing Shelby with her. It was my favorite week of the year. Nan would bring peach buns and crabmeat; Shelby and I would climb under the covers of the same double bed to whisper secrets and dreams, and, for a brief moment, I could almost imagine that everything was the way it always was, that I had a place to belong.
Goodbye!
Again, my Nan and Shelby would get in Nan’s car and return home to Baltimore. After a couple of summers, though, Shelby wouldn’t come back when Nan did.
Goodbye!
I have said this word often in my short life, and each time it feels excruciating. Each time it feels as if my tray has been knocked over, just after I’ve finally picked up the pieces. This simple phrase contains the word “good,” and yet nothing about saying it seems good. It seems only to bring heartache and loneliness and desire for a time, a place that was, but is no more.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
"Echoes", pt 1
I just finished a piece for my Creative Non-fiction class. I'll share it with you all, but I'll do it in installments, like Charles Dickens :-) I think it works well for that, as I have the piece divided into sections that are linked by theme, not as a narrative. The temporary title is "Echoes" -- I'm not sure if I want to keep it.
Enjoy!
p.s. for those of you who read my "Weight of Words" essay, this part won't be new -- I stole the first section of it for this piece -- but it is a little different! so read on :-)
In the beginning was the word!
Arms lifted, eyebrows raised, Dr. Paul Kilpatrick gestured emphatically from the front of the classroom at 8 a.m. It was too early for most of us, having just crawled out from our blankets and used what energy there was to climb three flights to our classroom. Yet the words of the apostle John jumped from Dr. Kilpatrick’s lips as he laid the foundation for Linguistics 201.
With his token brightly-colored shirt rolled up at the cuffs, denim jeans, and cowboy boots, Dr. Kilpatrick paced the front of the room. He stroked his goatee as he continued his lesson, attempting to reveal to us the mystery of language, its beginnings and its diversity.
Most of us were barely conscious, barely aware of the life-giving words he was offering us. Thankfully, the words didn’t stay in that room, but remained with me, shaping the way I think about words, and, in particular, writing.
Words are able to resonate within my soul, to continue speaking long after the speaker ceases. They repeat themselves back to me, like a shout into a cavern, echoing faintly, yet clear and distinct. Words can shake the walls of my soul, and my soul both absorbs them and speaks them back.
In the best of moments, the words that echo back bring life and peace. Mirroring the words of God in the creation of the world, words can create a world of beauty in the soul. Words bring life primarily because they are relational; they bring opposites into communion. Christ, as the Divine Word, is the ultimate example of this restoration. He brings my sinful self into communion with the holy Father, with others, and with myself. Words, of course, cannot throw a shadow onto the magnificence of Christ's work of reconciliation. But they are, nonetheless, a shadow of that work and are able to mimic it.
Words bring me into communion with God. With words he calls me to himself, sending his Spirit to shatter my heart of stone. He gives words so I may praise him in joy; he gives words so I may cry to him in anguish. With words he writes his law on my heart and my name in his Book of Life. He bridges the gap between heaven and earth with words that are sharper than a two-edged sword; able to divide soul and spirit, bone and marrow; and able to breathe life into my dead heart.
Words bring us into communion with others. With words we speak love and peace. Words can heal and bind up, create intimacy and harmony. They are the means by which we connect our lives with others, bringing wholeness. And the written word takes this even further, creating a link between two worlds, two times, bringing refreshment and enlightenment to the thirsty. “You build a world in what you say,” says Diane Glancy. “Words—as I speak or write them—make a path on which I walk.”
Enjoy!
p.s. for those of you who read my "Weight of Words" essay, this part won't be new -- I stole the first section of it for this piece -- but it is a little different! so read on :-)
In the beginning was the word!
Arms lifted, eyebrows raised, Dr. Paul Kilpatrick gestured emphatically from the front of the classroom at 8 a.m. It was too early for most of us, having just crawled out from our blankets and used what energy there was to climb three flights to our classroom. Yet the words of the apostle John jumped from Dr. Kilpatrick’s lips as he laid the foundation for Linguistics 201.
With his token brightly-colored shirt rolled up at the cuffs, denim jeans, and cowboy boots, Dr. Kilpatrick paced the front of the room. He stroked his goatee as he continued his lesson, attempting to reveal to us the mystery of language, its beginnings and its diversity.
Most of us were barely conscious, barely aware of the life-giving words he was offering us. Thankfully, the words didn’t stay in that room, but remained with me, shaping the way I think about words, and, in particular, writing.
Words are able to resonate within my soul, to continue speaking long after the speaker ceases. They repeat themselves back to me, like a shout into a cavern, echoing faintly, yet clear and distinct. Words can shake the walls of my soul, and my soul both absorbs them and speaks them back.
In the best of moments, the words that echo back bring life and peace. Mirroring the words of God in the creation of the world, words can create a world of beauty in the soul. Words bring life primarily because they are relational; they bring opposites into communion. Christ, as the Divine Word, is the ultimate example of this restoration. He brings my sinful self into communion with the holy Father, with others, and with myself. Words, of course, cannot throw a shadow onto the magnificence of Christ's work of reconciliation. But they are, nonetheless, a shadow of that work and are able to mimic it.
Words bring me into communion with God. With words he calls me to himself, sending his Spirit to shatter my heart of stone. He gives words so I may praise him in joy; he gives words so I may cry to him in anguish. With words he writes his law on my heart and my name in his Book of Life. He bridges the gap between heaven and earth with words that are sharper than a two-edged sword; able to divide soul and spirit, bone and marrow; and able to breathe life into my dead heart.
Words bring us into communion with others. With words we speak love and peace. Words can heal and bind up, create intimacy and harmony. They are the means by which we connect our lives with others, bringing wholeness. And the written word takes this even further, creating a link between two worlds, two times, bringing refreshment and enlightenment to the thirsty. “You build a world in what you say,” says Diane Glancy. “Words—as I speak or write them—make a path on which I walk.”
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