I've always taken to them well--I was an accurate elementary school speller, taking pride in one hundred percents on spelling tests. I have an uncanny ability to memorize song lyrics and thought I'd be perfect on the now defunct "Singing Bee" (fantastic premise, terrible show). I liked words so much, I majored in them in college, and then went and learned new words to new languages.
Every day we speak words in various tones with facial expressions that convey our messages in so many different ways. Say something a little perky and with a smile and you might just make someone's day. On the contrary, mumble and frown and just the opposite happens. Even worse, perhaps, would be ignoring someone else's words, and the message that such an event could send.
My oldest tells stories that often include the inserted, "And then guess what?" after each detail, and it gets tiring to say "What?" and maybe I do zone out, but I make sure I'm looking at him. I make sure he knows he matters, that his words matter.
My youngest will sing songs, particularly "Baa Baa Blacksheep" until you want to hand deliver all the damned wool yourself so you don't have to keep asking him if he has any.
But I sing along. Because those words matter, too.
Sometimes, we use our words and we just aren't quite sure what the impact will be. Fall on deaf ears? Imprinted on the heart? Somewhere in between?
Our own mothers felt this way, I'm sure, and now we as parents find ourselves quoting them. "My mom always used to say..."
As a teacher, I say words all day long. "Don't forget to do your homework" is always in one ear and out the other. "There's candy at the end of this activity" gets all attention focused on what my next sentence will be. (Subsequently, all I have to say is "lollipop" at my house and my kids will do whatever I ask.)
I had a student several years ago, Miranda. Not many young girls with that name, so she is easy to remember. Perhaps she holds a sweeter spot in my heart because she struggled with so many things while she was a student in my class. Junior High is rough--I would not repeat it for any amount of fame and fortune--and for today's kids, I'd say it's a whole different, more angry animal.
So in many ways, Miranda reminded me of, well, me.
We spent some mornings...and lunches...and after school minutes chatting about all that ailed her: friends and parents and fitting in and dealing with difficult things and figuring out the best ways to navigate through the age of fourteen.
I know I shared so many words with her, words that I had always hoped lit some sort of fire; words that just maybe could have been the ones that imprinted on her heart.
Two years ago Miranda was killed in a car accident.
This morning, in my mailbox, was a letter from a student I never had. Her name brought no immediate recognition, but she introduced herself as Miranda's best friend.
"You have taught me a life lesson that I will never forget," she wrote, "and it was something that you told [Miranda]. And that was that you deserve the best no matter what, don't settle for something that isn't the best...Whether you know it or not, you changed her life, and I am so thankful that you were there for her, and me."
The words we carry within us, the ones we choose to say in any old regular way, in any old conversation, can be the words that plant seeds in hearts. And when we don't even know it, they go off and they grow.
That's the honest truth.
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