Words
I threw myself onto the couch after a long, difficult day. Another one gone without accomplishing the tasks I had so desperately hoped to finish. A storm of negative thoughts, accompanied by frustration and self-pity, gathered in my mind.
As I lay there ruminating, I noticed a small pile of wooden letters from one of Oliver's puzzles resting on the coffee table. They were softly backlit by the waning evening light spilling through the window. Instantly, I imagined myself shrunken and buried beneath them, struggling under their weight.
Those simple symbols, accompanied by their sounds and collective meanings, hold remarkable power over us. Since stepping into the faith and becoming a parent, I've become more mindful of the language I consume. The conversations I have, the podcasts and music I listen to, the movies I watch—they all shape me in subtle ways. They are not as harmless as our culture suggests. Like food, our minds are fed by what we repeatedly take in, and it's wise to be discerning about what we allow in.
I know this, and yet I continue to struggle most with the language I use toward myself. Rationally, I recognize when my thoughts become dramatic, overly critical, or simply untrue. But habits formed over years are not easily broken.
Scripture has much to say about the power of words, both spoken and unspoken. Proverbs reminds us that "Death and life are in the power of the tongue." Paul writes, "Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up." And perhaps my favorite encouragement comes from Philippians: "Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure... think about these things."
Whatever is true.
I think that may be the most important- and perhaps the most difficult- part of using language well. Our view of reality becomes distorted when we repeatedly tell exaggerated stories and lies to ourselves. Over time, those thoughts become familiar, and familiarity has a way of masquerading as truth. The strong emotions they produce only make them feel more convincing.
I haven't solved this dilemma yet, and perhaps I never will. But I do know it can be softened by slowly replacing false words with true ones. Not louder or happier words, but honest ones.
Looking back at those wooden letters on the coffee table, I was reminded that letters themselves carry no weight. Yet arranged into words, they can become burdens we carry or truths that set us free. The words with the greatest power are often not the ones spoken aloud, but the ones repeated silently until we mistake them for truth. The weight I felt that evening wasn't from the letters alone, but from the story I was spelling out for myself.
