The Forgotten

The small sheet was old, stuffed under a box of pushpins in my teacher's desk. Rumpled and bent. Forgotten and lost.

I pulled it out and inhaled sharply. Another lesson for today.

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A frame has sat on the edge of my desk for several years now. Simple verse printed off of Word in a pretty script. Truth from Granite that needed to be cut into my heart:

"'Rash words are like the thrusts of a sword,

but the tongue of the wise brings healing.' Proverbs 12:18

Rash words are without consideration or discernment and are intended to hurt."

Truth be told, I have always struggled with keeping my temper under control. My fuse is short, especially during times of stress, and I am known in these walls for a stinging tongue. It's something I have to confess & seek forgiveness for more than anything else. I hate it, but obviously not enough yet, because the tongue remains untamed to a shameful extent.

So I print verses and pray verses and fight to make my fuse longer, miles longer, begging for the grace I need to not wound those I love the most.

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As the wrinkled paper was turned over, words from a sweet, childish scrawl came to light:

"THANK you for saying ThaT."

Who? From When? Who wrote this note that was so dear that I saved it to be found, to remind me that I was loved and had done something worth the note?

The back revealed the blesser: my 1st son, now a 9th-grader. Nine years ago, a kindergartner. Nine years ago, a young child under a mom who said things that warranted a thank-you note. A mom who remembered to bless with words more than sting with rashness.

I sat back with the sharp inhale.

These days, a good school day is defined by no rash words. Or very few of them, as the standards sink. Nine years ago, there were only 2 schooling kids with a small baby who slept often. Mom worked hard to make joy in each day. Crafts were planned and field trips were taken and books were read at the drop of a hat.

Nine years later, life is busier than I could've imagined. I'm nine years older and am schooling 3 children with wildly different needs. I meet myself coming and going, burning the candle at both ends, proud to serve spaghetti and salad instead of hot dogs and chips, wondering how to get everyone where they need to be, wondering how to be the wife still to a man who needs my companionship and love.

Nine years later, "good school day" means that all the boxes got checked off and I haven't been harsh.

But somewhere, stuck under something, crumpled and lost, is my resolve to speak beyond rash. To instead, speak encouragement and excitement and interest and compassion, inspiration and approval and support.

In short, to speak love. In a way that begs a "thank-you" note. Even if the note never comes!

For tomorrow, the slip of paper is out of hiding and is taped to the framed verse, a reminder of this: not speaking "rash" is good. Just not good enough.

I want to speak love.

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If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels,

but do not have love, I have become a noisy gong

or a clanging cymbal. 1 Cor. 13:1