I was in the second grade when a neighbor boy called me a hippo. Everyday, as I stepped off the school bus, he was waiting to throw something at me, call me a name, and then run home to his mother who was waiting to open the screen door and rescue her little darling. His words usually weren't so bitter and cruel, but that day, "hippo" cut deep. So deep, in fact, I didn't chase after him. So, he came back for more, taunting me, like a mockingbird pesters a cat. Trying to ignore him, I continued to walk home with my peers until I reached the corner just in front of his house. Then for some reason, I stopped and stood there on a large stump of an old tree, and I listened to him sing a song about hippos.
And I cried.
He was a pest. He was always a pest, a scrappy little guy, with a mouth as big as the sky, who spent the better part of his childhood stirring up trouble on our double culdesac. Looking back, I can see now that he was terribly lacking in the social skills department, and his daily ritual of calling me names and throwing things at me was his way of getting attention... maybe it was even his way of trying to make friends. Regardless of the reasoning behind his behavior, the issue is that I gave place to those vicious words. In fact, here I sit, some 38 years later, remembering his words and how they made me feel.
He was a pest. He was always a pest, a scrappy little guy, with a mouth as big as the sky, who spent the better part of his childhood stirring up trouble on our double culdesac. Looking back, I can see now that he was terribly lacking in the social skills department, and his daily ritual of calling me names and throwing things at me was his way of getting attention... maybe it was even his way of trying to make friends. Regardless of the reasoning behind his behavior, the issue is that I gave place to those vicious words. In fact, here I sit, some 38 years later, remembering his words and how they made me feel.
I wasn't a spoiled princess, a pampered child whose parents lavished praise upon her. I don't recall being told I was beautiful or smart or precious or valuable or special. I just believed I was. I never thought any differently, until the day I stood on the tree stump and learned I wasn't.
And the war with my self esteem was waged.
Since that day, there have been a lot of words said about me, some of them good, and some of them not-so-good. In the last couple of years, I've been called the "B" word -- the five letter one -- more times than I can count, but I've also been called the nine letter "B" word, so it should all balance out. Yet, it doesn't. The hurtful words carry a sting that doesn't go away; they seem to reverberate, echoing internally and eternally. They cut so deep, leaving wounds that sometimes fester and spread; and even when we allow the wounds time to heal, the scars are there to serve as a reminder of the pain.
I wish I could say that the moment I stood on that old stump of a tree, I learned a lesson I would never forget, and that I have never hurled such ugly words at someone, that I have never been the pest with a mouth as big as the sky, that I have never said hurtful words with intent to wound and scar. But the fact is that I have. Like lava from a volcano, I have spewed words from my mouth that I wish I could suck back in, and while I have tried to make things right, somehow, apologies fall oh-so-short.
Because words have power. They have the power of life and death.
Think about it. God created the worlds with the spoken word. He spoke it, and it was. If then, we are created in His image, then what power do we possess in the words we whisper about others, about ourselves? In the words we spew in anger, in jealousy, in sarcasm, in vain?
Since that day, there have been a lot of words said about me, some of them good, and some of them not-so-good. In the last couple of years, I've been called the "B" word -- the five letter one -- more times than I can count, but I've also been called the nine letter "B" word, so it should all balance out. Yet, it doesn't. The hurtful words carry a sting that doesn't go away; they seem to reverberate, echoing internally and eternally. They cut so deep, leaving wounds that sometimes fester and spread; and even when we allow the wounds time to heal, the scars are there to serve as a reminder of the pain.
I wish I could say that the moment I stood on that old stump of a tree, I learned a lesson I would never forget, and that I have never hurled such ugly words at someone, that I have never been the pest with a mouth as big as the sky, that I have never said hurtful words with intent to wound and scar. But the fact is that I have. Like lava from a volcano, I have spewed words from my mouth that I wish I could suck back in, and while I have tried to make things right, somehow, apologies fall oh-so-short.
Because words have power. They have the power of life and death.
Think about it. God created the worlds with the spoken word. He spoke it, and it was. If then, we are created in His image, then what power do we possess in the words we whisper about others, about ourselves? In the words we spew in anger, in jealousy, in sarcasm, in vain?
It has taken me all of my 45 years to realize that the words and opinions of man are not only limited to what their eyes can see, but also tainted by the eyes with which they see me. While their words still seem to sting a little more than I care to admit, I've learned that their words don't trump who His Word says that I am. Likewise, the thoughts that I think of myself don't trump the thoughts that He thinks of me.
And to me that means I'm not a hippo or the five-letter-b-word, not even close.
Proverbs 18:21 Death and life are in the power of the tongue: and they that love it shall eat the fruit thereof.
Proverbs 18:21 Death and life are in the power of the tongue: and they that love it shall eat the fruit thereof.
