just say it
A word aptly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver.~ Proverbs 25:11
Let no unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is useful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen. ~Ephesians 4:29
You know, words don’t really come easily to any of us.
But in a house where autism lives, words are like gold–rare, costly, precious, and worth the sweat. Training our children is first about teaching them what we hope to hear—turning the words over on our tongues for them repetitively as we would a nugget in our hands—and then leading them in such a way that they might recall where to find the words we’ve shown them, hoping maybe they’ll build bridges over all the broken connections in their minds.
One of the biggest lessons my children have taught me is that communication is so much more than words. But let’s not underestimate the value of something spoken. Sometimes, I’ll look into Adam’s bright blue eyes and say, “I love you,” and he’ll respond quickly, “I love you,” and give me a kiss. Other times, he searches my eyes, and then just kisses me, the words lost somewhere, disconnected from the feeling that cannot be taken away from us.
I can’t tell you how much I missed the sound of Riley’s voice those three or four minutes last July, when she had a seizure and could not speak to me.
Last weekend, I retreated to the coast with some of my closest friends. We all had had so much of life that we felt ready to leave three weeks before the day came. Our sighs were audible when we arrived at the shore, threw open the doors and windows, and smelled the salty breeze. We inhaled beach as deeply as we could, and, as one of our friends put it, “the healing began.” The first evening we were there, after a day spent taking long walks with our feet in the ocean, we sat around in a circle, our burdens piled up beside us, and one by one we told each other some of the things we never say—words about what we see and love in each other, who we are as friends, differences made perhaps when we hardly knew.
It occurred to me, sitting there with my friends, that these are things we hardly express when our loved ones are living. At their funerals, we speak through our tears, sometimes at microphones, sometimes in crowds, telling family and friends and strangers that a life now completed meant so much to us that we are overwhelmed with grief. At my mother-in-love’s funeral, I remember thinking,“ I wonder if she knew how much we were all going to miss her.” There were people who traveled for miles to be there to pay their respects. Words tumbled from their lips about how much she meant to them, the example she’d been, the memories they would treasure. It buoyed us in those dark hours, to know that she’d been cherished and loved so much by so many, but I wonder if she knew, in her life, that so many people considered her such a blessing.
Our group of friends had never done this sort of thing before, but it was time. We had come to the beach with so much weight on our shoulders, and there had been brokenness even in our relationships. Life leaves so much room for interpretation, and most of us are notoriously bad at translating body language and tone, not to mention words. There are always details we don’t know or can’t understand, and the filter we use for hearing has been scarred by all our past hurts and all our present insecurities. Sometimes it isn’t that we hurt each other more by failing to say these things, but that our silences fail to build and heal, and in our lack of understanding, we imagine holes where none existed.
I confess that every time it was my turn to speak, I thought, “Okay now, can you do this without crying or all those tremors in your voice?” When it was time to say something to a friend to whom I feel especially close, I paused significantly, because I wasn’t entirely sure I could manage to express myself clearly. In fact, we all commented about the tears, in one way or another, uncomfortable with them and yet embracing them all at the same time. Even as I tell you this, I know I am reinforcing an old stereotype about women. But I think it’s time we all stop being so afraid to cry.
In that circle that first evening on the coast, I saw another flaw in myself. I have no difficulty saying “I love you” and meaning it, but when it comes to actually getting down to specifics, the vulnerability scares me to death. Before that moment, I had not noticed the shadow of rejection and lost friendships paralyzing me or the silences with which I have protected myself. How many times had I been honest about my feelings for someone else and then discovered them critical, harsh, and mocking me behind my back? How many times had I loved only to discover that I was someone’s favorite joke?
But that night, pushing down my inclination to protect myself, looking at these close friends through my scars, I spoke. And my voice sounded funny in my own ears as I fought to be real and to be specific about it. I don’t think I did as well as some of them, because inevitably the best communication came out in complete surrender, voices wavering and cheeks wet.
Still, the process has broken some sort of invisible lock I didn’t even know I had placed on my heart, and in the days that have followed, I have found myself fighting for more vulnerability with those I love, because these spoken words are like gold, and the sweat is worth it. I do not want to wait until my loved ones die to say specific things about what they mean to me, especially when opening my heart could build and heal in places where my silences only reinforce misinterpretations.
I don’t know why it’s easier for us to say the negative and critical things while remaining silent about the positive specifics, except that we’ve bought the lie that strength is found in positions of power and control instead of in our vulnerability and surrender. This is, after all, the convincing speech of the Enemy of our souls. The greatest obstacle to embracing the Cross and a sold-out relationship with our Redeemer is our fear about being vulnerable enough to admit, in specific, wet-cheeked words, that we ever needed Him in the first place.
For Mother’s Day, Zoe painted me a beautiful picture of flowers in a vase. She’s truly an artist, I see that already, and she did a marvelous job. When she gave it to me, I hugged her and smiled and said, “I love it!” But just moments later, she looked up at me, an uncertain expression shadowing her blue-grey eyes, and said, “But what do you love about it?” I see that even with my children I need to cover more ground and tell them specifically what they mean to me and all the things I see in them, so that all this training might be rooted deeply in a love that they can see more clearly.
Years ago, I started a scrapbook for myself and began filling it with letters and cards I receive from friends and family. I cherish heartfelt words and store them up for those days when, illogically, I feel lonely in my life. I turn the pages and smile, feeling my uncertainty washed away by streams of encouragement. I need to know ways that God is using the life I am living now, to believe that He can and will continue to do so, despite the inadequacy I recognize in myself. And seeing the gifts that others have given me, saying what they feel, trusting me with their vulnerability, makes me want to be better at doing the same.
I want to forget myself long enough not to think so much about composing myself and not to worry about shedding the tears that are an honest reflection of my feelings. I want to build bridges over all the broken connections and do the work, because I–living here where autism lives–really should never underestimate the value of something spoken. And ultimately, I want God to replace every word of my own with His, because vulnerability is a lot easier when I recognize that His honor is the only honor truly at stake.
Whoever speaks on their own does so to gain personal glory, but he who seeks the glory of the one who sent him is a man of truth; there is nothing false about him. ~John 7:18, the words of Christ
