Words are crazy little things.
A bunch of letters arranged to form common meanings. They often seem to matter so little, like when I tell my kids to clean up their rooms, and then nothing happens. Or when I say "I love you" to my husband for the tenth time in a day, more out of habit than passion.
On the other hand, when I'm careless with words I hope that they don't matter much, like when I'm too harsh with my kids for a mistake they made, or am critical of my husband. They can't really be taken back - words. We try, say we didn't mean it, we misspoke, or that we are sorry. But it takes time to heal from certain words.
The Bible says that a word aptly spoken is like an apple of gold in a setting of silver. I've always thought that was a strange analogy. Maybe that was some coveted piece of art that every woman wanted on her mantle during Solomon's time. I don't know. But I'm starting to understand what the wise king was getting at. Sometimes it's easier for me to understand a concept by looking at its opposite.
A careless word spoken at a person's weakest moment is like shoving rotten food down that person's throat. These words are hard to vomit back up, instead they fester in the stomach, absorbing through the lining, flowing into the bloodstream until the person is contaminated by them. They feel sick. Weak. Confused. This happened to me a few weeks ago. I was having a terrible week at work. Two major projects were to be completed and both were on my head and everything was going wrong with one of them. The reality is the least favorite part of my job is taking care of major mailings, and this was one of those. Nothing was working. The mail wasn't merging, the lists weren't downloading, the printer was printing wrong and the folder wasn't folding. But everything still had to get done on time and I was pulling my hair out.
I texted my husband asking if it would be a problem if I quit my job that day. He texted back that it depends on your perspective. That perspective being whether I considered food stamps a viable option for our family or not. All this to say, I was losing it. Then a coworker comes in. This coworker is a friend of mine, and a brother in Christ. When I asked if we could call a guy to fix the folding machine he said, "as long as it doesn't cost $30,000, let's get it fixed" I said, "Yeah, it'd be cheaper to hire a professional paper folder than to do that." He looked me in the eye and said, "You are our professional paper folder."
That was it. Those six innocuous words and I was sunk.
"I am a professional paper folder," I said to myself. Feeling about as much worth as the wadded up rejects in the recycling bin. No, I'm not! I wanted to scream back. But I couldn't because it was true. While there is more to my job than folding 1300 letters and stuffing them into envelopes, that was my job that day. That's all I am, I thought, nothing more. 39 years of life, 4 years of college, 15 years in ministry, and now I am nothing more than a professional paper folder. The words filled my stomach and seeped into my veins. In that moment, under that stress, those words told me that that was all I was. I was nothing more. I had no more value than to fold those God-forsaken papers.
I went for a walk through campus and cried. I sat in the shade of a tree and cried some more wishing I could absorb into the ground with its roots. I took this job to provide for my family. Now look at me. A college educated woman with creative thoughts and ideas bursting at my seams, now nothing more than a professional paper folder.
Certainly my pride was hurt, but this was more than humbling, this made me forget who I am. I know who I am. I know who made me and the value I have in my little world. A husband thinks I'm worth coming home to every night. My kids, even my middle schoolers, still clamor for my attention and affection. My friends all know that they can come to me for love, encouragement and a listening ear. In that moment none of it mattered. The words had cut deeply and I was fighting to get above them.
It took me days of talking, praying, reading and hearing God's truth to remember and believe that I'm more than those words. Therein is the irony. What brought healing? Those aptly spoken apples of gold, set beautifully in casings of silver.
I went to church that Sunday and was so starved for hope and truth that when I realized the pastor was wrapping up his message I started to panic. I wished I lived in Africa where I've heard the service might keep going for another couple hours. I felt like a camel just come across the Sahara, longing to be filled up again with living water only to get a trickle.
Thankfully, over the course of a week or two, I was able to journal and read the Bible, talk to my husband and friends, hold my kids and absorb their love, and finally be restored to the person that God made me to be - not limited by my current occupation or job description, but a child of God with tremendous purpose, just like you.
Words are crazy little things. Letters arranged in a certain order to create meaning that we share with one another. Thankfully, God knew the power they held when He created them, put them in his book and wrote them on our hearts. I pray that you are filled up to overflowing with those precious apples of gold set in casings of silver. Because you matter to God.
