Why Your Words Matter Most

On the brink of a new year, we’re thinking about fresh starts and how do we begin again and how your words matter. Whether you write, speak, or want to connect with the hearts of those you love, this year, The Word in your words can change the world. My friend, Ann Voskamp and I have been talking and praying about words. How to serve with them and use them well. We’re writing our thoughts as a series of letters each Tuesday and we’d love for you to be part of the conversation too. Will you join us? ::


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earest Holley

 

When I cleaned out that basement drawer on the first day of the year and unexpectedly found that old card with all the prints of their bared, inked hands, I had crumpled to the floor.

Ink loosens bones and can make one fall apart.

Where does all the time go and how is it that ink can line our skin and outline our souls?

Picnik collage

I had forgotten all about that card, Holley. How I had made their handprints for our Christmas card that year, when we had four, three boys and a girl. The oldest then five. The youngest — seven. Seven days. I could hardly unfurl him.

He’d kept curling his natal fist when I went to make his handprint with the ink pad. Thus, the singular foot print. How could his toes ever been those string of black beads? I can remember how he felt, warm next to me — a sunning stone.

I had wanted to remember them all, just like that — the dimpled cheeks, the fine blonde hair, the bellies that jiggled when they giggled, and they giggled over everything — to somehow frame the art of now. I had used ink. I had pressed their hands, and that one wrinkled pink foot, to the pad — and they left their mark in ink. Pressed their wonder right into me.

A decade and one year later, and they are tall now. Those hands are big, carving out a life. The oldest and the girl both with feet larger than mine. I am sitting in a ring of lamp light, holding lines of their sworling ink. Of them long ago little. All that was. Sometimes I think I know where time goes — straight way to a bittersweet ache.

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I don’t know how long I sat there tracing those black lines, Holley. Trying to find a way back in time.

And I don’t know which of the handprints I was outlining slowly when I realized: I don’t think now that we ever leave our mark in ink — It is the ink that marks us. It is the words that mark us.

It is all the ink and and all the words and and all the voices and and all the stories that stain us and make us who we are.

All the words I had ever spoken, they are making my children who they are. What we speak into others, this is what they become.

The Word God breathed life into us who are made of the ground and our lives are literally this: living letters. I sat there a long time, Holley. Not moving. Hardly breathing. Wondering what letters I had written on the skin of all the people in my life. I just kept tracing their inked fingerprints with my finger. The Word was made flesh and we are made of words.

Is that why He tells us that His Words are to be our very life? So that His Words permeate us and become the words of life we speak into others? You are what you speak and you are what you hear and we are our words and our tongue is the tail of our heart. Sometimes it is our own sin that makes us ache.

I think it was sitting there, Holley, tracing the ink of my children’s lives that made me think of Jesus, the Word, and how we have only one account of Him writing anything at all. It was with his finger too, and it was only this: Jesus “stooped down and wrote on the ground.” (John 8:6-8)

When God came to earth, He didn’t inscribe one word in a tablet of stone. No granite for God. Nor books or blog, not even one letter, signature or song. Jesus wrote no documents — He only scrawled in dirt. He etched His Word in shifting granules of dirt.

Writing in dirt — it seems so — fleeting. How can words in dirt survive anything?

And yet —

All words are really only shaped in dust.

Whether encouraging a child, phoning a hurting friend, publishing a blog post, writing a book — all our words can ever do is just this — inscribe dirt. For isn’t this what lives are made of?

Our words holler across the house, blink up on a screen, scroll across a page, but ultimately they’re written in dust — right onto skin, right onto hearts of sand.

And in the upside down kingdom, it is not published books or shared blogs that endure, but it’s what is housed in the dust that is eternal; it’s the words we’re writing on hearts that last forever.

Our littlest, she came to me when I was sitting there holding the card, Holley, settled down in my lap, this one born many moons after these three handprints and a footprint. 

She’d placed her hand over this handprint, that one, and then had to ask.

“Could I do it too?” She turned her face to face me hopeful. I looked right into her, framed art here.

And I cupped her close and whispered happy words straight  into her.  

And she ran to get the ink.

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written for your heart, by Ann Voskamp @ A Holy Experience

Want to read a  related encouraging article?  Why You Really Are Living A Good Story Today

and then pick up your own free word strengtheners

~~~

O, tell us  a good, God-glorifying  story — who has written an encouraging letter on your heart? How did they do it? What strengthening words are you writing on the skins around you  these days? 

About Holley

About Holley

Wall Street Journal Bestselling Author and Life Coach

I like humans, words, and good coffee. And I’d love to help you beat what’s holding you back, become all you’re created to be, and kick butt for the greater good.

Cheering you on,

Holley

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