“I have often regretted my speech, never my silence.” –
Xenocrates (396-314 B.C.)
Xenocrates (396-314 B.C.)
You
learned later in life to utter that prayer for yourself and others, the one
that pops up regularly in your mind: “Lord, give me the words – and the
silences.” Where did that prayer come from? You know where it came from – all
those misspoken words still regretted today. Too many times uttering the first
thought to pop in your head despite not asking for God’s assistance. Too many
times opening your mouth when you should’ve been listening, like the time she
came to you to confide about serious marriage troubles but you turned the
conversation back to yourself, your troubles. Too many times sharing your
opinion, your recommendations, your suggestions, your criticisms, your ‘this is
confidential’ statements, ‘this is just between us’ prefaces. Too many times
uttering statements that sound to your own ears as tough love, good advice,
wise counsel, needed direction when in actuality they will enter into someone
else’s heart as wounds that pierce and wrap around psyches, contributing to
self-doubt, returning as unwelcome accusers for days, months, or maybe even
years, causing deflated sons to feel doubly bad about the poor grade, rocky
relationship, inappropriate choice when they were just trying on adulthood. How
about the letters written in haste that can never be retracted? Or emails? Now there’s an instant way to damage
someone’s self-image – or a relationship – when silent prayer would’ve been
best of all.
learned later in life to utter that prayer for yourself and others, the one
that pops up regularly in your mind: “Lord, give me the words – and the
silences.” Where did that prayer come from? You know where it came from – all
those misspoken words still regretted today. Too many times uttering the first
thought to pop in your head despite not asking for God’s assistance. Too many
times opening your mouth when you should’ve been listening, like the time she
came to you to confide about serious marriage troubles but you turned the
conversation back to yourself, your troubles. Too many times sharing your
opinion, your recommendations, your suggestions, your criticisms, your ‘this is
confidential’ statements, ‘this is just between us’ prefaces. Too many times
uttering statements that sound to your own ears as tough love, good advice,
wise counsel, needed direction when in actuality they will enter into someone
else’s heart as wounds that pierce and wrap around psyches, contributing to
self-doubt, returning as unwelcome accusers for days, months, or maybe even
years, causing deflated sons to feel doubly bad about the poor grade, rocky
relationship, inappropriate choice when they were just trying on adulthood. How
about the letters written in haste that can never be retracted? Or emails? Now there’s an instant way to damage
someone’s self-image – or a relationship – when silent prayer would’ve been
best of all.
But in recent
years, you’re learning to zip your lip. Like when someone falsely accused you,
lied about you, offered betrayal in response to your friendship. You offered
silence rather than defending yourself. And although you never saw healing
results, you know God speaks into silence.
years, you’re learning to zip your lip. Like when someone falsely accused you,
lied about you, offered betrayal in response to your friendship. You offered
silence rather than defending yourself. And although you never saw healing
results, you know God speaks into silence.
Other times you
practiced silence and the payoff was way big. “Kenzie ran your van into a
school bus” the neighbor said, coming to your house to carry you to the scene
early on a September school morning. You arrived and walked past all the caring
neighbors looped in a half circle around your sobbing son where they stood in
silent respect. You passed the police officer writing a ticket, and the mangled
bus where thankfully no one was hurt, and your totaled mini-van, the one you
really, really liked. You looped your arm through your son’s arm just as the
police officer came over to hand him the ticket. You said a couple of words:
“It’ll be okay. No one was hurt. Nothing that can’t be fixed.” And then you
joined the neighbors in respectful silence.
practiced silence and the payoff was way big. “Kenzie ran your van into a
school bus” the neighbor said, coming to your house to carry you to the scene
early on a September school morning. You arrived and walked past all the caring
neighbors looped in a half circle around your sobbing son where they stood in
silent respect. You passed the police officer writing a ticket, and the mangled
bus where thankfully no one was hurt, and your totaled mini-van, the one you
really, really liked. You looped your arm through your son’s arm just as the
police officer came over to hand him the ticket. You said a couple of words:
“It’ll be okay. No one was hurt. Nothing that can’t be fixed.” And then you
joined the neighbors in respectful silence.
Or the fire?
Seventeen acres they managed to burn thanks to their novice filmmaking attempts
to include World War II special effects in their student film but forgetting to
calculate the danger of fireworks in a drought. “We couldn’t believe how fast
the trees went up in flames,” your son told you later when he still reeked of
ash and smoke, after the policeman spoke gracious words to him in your driveway
behind the replacement mini-van: “Don’t let this get in the way of your
dreams.” After reassuring your sons they were loved and forgiven. After
watching the news feeds of helicopters dumping water on the fire while residents
in adjacent homes fled with pictures and important paperwork. After waking up
early in the morning to a sudden downpour of rain and learning that all was
still well with no loss of property, no loss of life, and smothered flames. You
withheld words throughout it all. And without your assistance, God stepped in and
spoke in the silence, teaching your sons a valuable lesson about grace and
kindness in the face of mistakes.
Seventeen acres they managed to burn thanks to their novice filmmaking attempts
to include World War II special effects in their student film but forgetting to
calculate the danger of fireworks in a drought. “We couldn’t believe how fast
the trees went up in flames,” your son told you later when he still reeked of
ash and smoke, after the policeman spoke gracious words to him in your driveway
behind the replacement mini-van: “Don’t let this get in the way of your
dreams.” After reassuring your sons they were loved and forgiven. After
watching the news feeds of helicopters dumping water on the fire while residents
in adjacent homes fled with pictures and important paperwork. After waking up
early in the morning to a sudden downpour of rain and learning that all was
still well with no loss of property, no loss of life, and smothered flames. You
withheld words throughout it all. And without your assistance, God stepped in and
spoke in the silence, teaching your sons a valuable lesson about grace and
kindness in the face of mistakes.