I have many passions. Family, photography, baking, travel. And much to my sons’ chagrin, writing. I’ve spent many an hour proof-reading and red-lining their papers over the years. Back in the day, I could often be found in the old, dusty library “stacks” on any given Saturday afternoon. Super nerdy, I know. But I loved researching and reading and analyzing and exploring through the written and spoken word. Absorbing the cadence of linguists, poets, authors, and lyricists has given me a lifelong appreciation of language.
Writing has always been an outlet for my emotions; a way for me to “get it all out” in a safe and concise manner; much more eloquently than I ever can through speech. While my tongue gets tied, my voice rattles, and my heart pounds when confronted with voicing my thoughts and feelings verbally, the ease with which the words flow through my fingers and onto the page is almost melodic in its effortlessness. The ability to edit, proofread, discard, and change gives me a freedom to articulate my thoughts with an exactness not vocally achievable. But once created and disseminated into the universe, they are not easily withdrawn. Words, whether spoken or written, can be either positively uplifting or utterly destructive; completely poignant or dreadfully uninspiring.
Through the years, my writings have celebrated milestones, honored achievements, paid tribute to loved ones, and expressed tremendous grief, overwhelming love, and every emotion in between. I’ve never hidden behind my prose, as so many do in today’s world of anonymous keyboard crusaders. I own my cogitations; whether they be a gift or a curse.
Recently, someone we respected, supported, and believed in, fell from grace in a rather public and shameful manner. I took the disappointment personally and found myself pained, angry, and vengeful. With my son, my family, and my community hurting, I took it upon myself to be both outspoken and accusatory. Through my words, I was going to give a voice to all the innocents and the betrayed. I was going to demand justice and seek punishment.
I convinced myself I was helping. In this moment, it was my calling and I was on a mission. Standing up to the establishment; showing strength, will, resilience, and poise. I insisted those at fault show us humility, compassion, and care in the face of betrayal and upheaval. I called for clarity, transparency, and change. I pleaded for understanding and empathy for those suffering and now forced to alter course.
“But Mom, I’m okay. And everyone deserves a second chance, don’t they? None of us is perfect, but we ARE perfect in God’s eyes.”
Queue jaw drop. Ummmmm….wow. Talk about using your words.
And just like that, the student became the teacher. I melted. A literal and proverbial puddle. His bright blue eyes pierced my soul and instantly revealed my egotistical and sanctimonious ways.
My mind reeled with flashback images. Tiny baby hands holding my finger. Giggles and first steps. Boo-boos and cuddle time. Bedtime stories and neck hugs. Words and lessons and scriptures and prayers I wasn’t sure he had heard, let alone taken to heart.
Now, this young man, forever “my baby”, was spewing those words back in my face. The innocence and purity with which he spoke cut like a knife. My instincts were to protect and shield and comfort, but by getting caught up in being offended, my message skewed and my words slanted. I was demanding of others what I was not yet willing to freely give; forgiveness, grace, benevolence. I had just been, not so gently reminded, that my words have power and a lasting influence. What do I want them to say?
After the initial shock of his statement wore off and I picked up what was left of my dignity from the floor, I humbly realized I’m exactly where I am supposed to be. We all need our paths righted every once in a while, whether it be through a dose of our own acrimonious medicine, or by other, gentler means. Thanks to a renewed sense of purpose, my words will continue to flow. But I hope they will be more intentional and considerate. My empathy will be more inclusive and unbiased. My forgiveness will be given more freely and generously; with no strings attached. I will try to keep my self-righteousness and conceit in check; granting myself mercy along the way, allowing for continued growth. Constantly moving toward self-acceptance and a greater appreciation for my tiny space in the ever-expanding big picture.
As the manchild prepares to finish his senior year and head off to wherever and whatever life has in store for him, this mama’s heart is full knowing his heart and head are in the right place. He is growing up in spite of my shortcomings and despite my mistakes. I take great solace in the fact that, in many ways, he has it figured out.
I, on the other hand, still have much to learn.
Flawed. Broken. But perfectly human.