I'll Be Your Huckleberry

There are times in life, every once in a while, when I am overwhelmed by how blessed I am. These times also seem to come after great stress or trial. Once the dust has settled, and your foe lays vanquished at the other end of the square, you’re able to look around you and appreciate that you are still alive, that your enemy (at least metaphorically) is not, and that most of the people watching gave you the courage to walk out there, draw your gun, and fight. Life is a battle, and anyone who believes otherwise obviously hasn’t left their house.

Your enemy could be almost anything: a negative thought or feeling, an ex-boyfriend, your own pride and hubris, a divorce, something you want but know you shouldn’t have, losing your job, losing a loved one. If you don’t fight, these things will eat you alive. They will take you down. They will go for the gut. You will fall, and you will not get up again.

Sometimes these fights are like a shoot-out in an old western. You stand in the square in front of the General Store while men, women, and children look on. You stare down your enemy as you position your hand above your gun. As the sun beats down on you, the clock strikes twelve and whoever draws first lives. Someone falls. It all happens in a few ticks of the minute hand.

At times these fights are like an action sequence from a Bruce Lee or James Bond movie. You and your enemy are flying all over the room, breaking tables, flipping off walls, trying to kill each other with swords, guns, ninja stars, two by fours, or whatever else you can grab. It’s like a dance. However, after no more than ten minutes or so, someone makes a wrong move and it’s over. Just like that.

Occasionally these fights are more like battles. You’re on a bloody battlefield, fighting an enemy you can’t really see. You may be wounded and crawling under barbed wire. Bombs are exploding over your head like a scene in Saving Private Ryan. It’s long, drawn-out, scary, and painful. If you’re still alive when the sun comes up, you win. It’s about survival.

No matter the kind of fight, victory is sweet. When you make it out alive, everything is brighter, sweeter, and more fragrant. You appreciate the little things more: birds tweeting, babies laughing, the wind blowing across your face. Sounds cheesy, but not to someone who has faced death and lived.

Of course, being a believer in Christ, I know that there is no battle I cannot win with my Savior at my side. However, sometimes, when the bombs are exploding overhead, the ninja stars are whipping through the air, and the world moves in slow motion as I pull out my gun, there is a little seed of doubt that tries to creep in and tell me that I might not make it.

As I sat in my parent’s living room last weekend, the battle seemed so far away. On a night when I could have been out on the town, doing any number of fun and exciting things, I could not have been more content sitting there on the couch. My step-mother and I were knitting washcloths, while my 91 year old grandfather telling us stories about the good old days, and my dad sat in his chair reading the paper. “I love you guys,” I said. I couldn’t hold it in. “We love you too.”

The only thing I must overcome now is the fear of when the next fight will come. Why fear when victory is assured? Good question. I guess it is fear of the unknown. For now, I try not to hold onto the fear and try to focus on the tweeting birds, the laughing babies, and the wind blowing across my face.

Finding Your Happy Place

happy place - n.

1. Place inside all of us where we are all happy and get the warm fuzzies. Our happy places are insulated from the jerks that make up just about everyone we encounter.
2. The mental state achieved when one wants to avoid the unpleasant or uncomfortable. Everyone's happy place is different, and usually consists of the things that make them joyous.
3. A psychologically-induced trance-like state, where a person may regress from a stressful situation. A person may go to their 'happy place' when trying to repress unhappy memories from their childhood.
4. A person whom is resting & de-stressing from work.
5. A term used to mean a place visualized or relived in ones mind as horrible or unpleasant things occur

urbandictionary.com


I've been trying to find my happy place lately. At night, when I close my eyes, try to relax, and drift into sleep, I am often kept awake by my ever working brain. I wish I was the kind of person that could just go to sleep as soon as their head hits the pillow, but I'm not. I lay there and rehearse the events of the day, good and bad. I re-think things I said or did and think of ways I could have said or done them better. It's almost like SportsCenter in my brain: Headlines, Top 10 Plays of the Day, analysis, replays, interviews. It's all very tiring.

This is why I've been trying to find my happy place. I need something I can focus on when I go to sleep that will make all the other thoughts slip away. And maybe not even just when I go to sleep, but when the troubles and trials and stresses of life try to get the best of me at any time of the day.

I got the idea recently when reading Johnny Cash's autobiography, Cash. It's really just a collection of stories about how he grew up, the people he knew, his family, his music, his time on the road. Johnny was a very spiritual, Christian man. At one point in the book he talks about how he spends time with God. He finds a quiet place away from everyone, he sits down, and he closes his eyes in a sort of meditative way. He then imagines this place he's been to in the mountains in Alaska. A small patch of ground in the wonderful, big, peaceful forrest. But he doesn't just imagine it. He goes there. It's almost like an out of body experience. And that's where he spends time with God. He goes through this long description of exactly what the place smells like, looks like, sounds like. He knows exactly how far it is from the shore of the ocean and what time of day it is. It's unreal. He probably knows this little patch of ground better than any other spot. And in that moment of meditative prayer, that spot is as real to him as if he were actually there. It blew my mind when I read his beautiful prose about this tiny spot. I wanted one too.

This week I've been imagining myself sitting in a high-backed arm chair in my parent's front living room. I'm wearing my favorite long sleeved t-shirt from high school that has my last name peeling off the back and my gray KU pajama pants. I'm also wearing socks because it's usually freezing in my parents house. I'm wrapped in my almost white, lavender colored robe that I've had longer than I can remember. The red blanket I got as an office Christmas present two years ago is across my lap. I imagine feeling the warmth of the ceramic coffee cup in my hands; the steam rising from the coffee and condensing on my nose as I take a sip. I let out a sigh, as I usually do after my first couple of sips. Amaretto creamer in my coffee. There is a floor lamp turned on next to me to offer a bit of light. It's early morning and there is just enough light to see that the snow is still falling outside. Big, fat, fluffy flakes. Most of the snow fell in the night, and the snow plows haven't come out yet, so most of the snow is undisturbed. Everything is quiet except for the sound of the hot air coming out of the air register in the corner of the room. A small table is to my right with a book on it. The book is Harry Potter y La Piedra Filosofal. There is a green mechanical pencil stuck in the middle of the book and a few yellow, lined sticky notes poking out the top. I just sit there, and stare out the window, and sip my coffee. I sip slowly and silently wish that the coffee would never run out and that the snow would never stop falling. An old Ford pick-up truck with it's headlights on slides through the stop sign at the corner, and the snow keeps falling.

Another happy place involves reading a book in approximately the same spot as my winter scene while rain falls outside. The window is slightly open and I can hear the rain falling. It's not a torrential rain, but a steady downpour. A cool breeze floats in.

Another happy place involves me laying in my childhood bed in Overland Park. My window and door are open, and the attic fan is running down the hall. I can imagine little, six-year old me perfectly. I'm wearing an over sized, navy blue t-shirt that says "Wiegand for Governor". I'm missing one of my front teeth. My skin is brown from playing in the summer sun. I remember exactly what my sheets and bedspread looked like. A small, mutt puppy is snuggled under the covers with me. She has blue eyes.

It's just a start. It's important to know all of the details. That way the image of your happy place flows more easily, and you're not hung up deciding on the details. It must be the same every time. You'll know your scene so well it will be easy to get lost in it. It will be like you're actually there. Breathe deep. In and out.

It seems to me that most of my happy places involve some sort of soothing white noise, or nature sounds. No music, as the words would distract me. No other people, as they would distract me too.

While it has become somewhat of a societal joke for angry people to repeat to themselves in moments of frustration, "I'm going to my happy place!", it's not really a joke for me anymore. It's a reality, and sometimes the only way I can find shalom in everyday trials and tribulations.

A Couple of Moments

"You only get a couple of moments that determine your life. Sometimes only one. And then it's gone. Forever." Jack Burden, All the King's Men

These words echoed in my mind after hearing them. I sat in the dark in my living room and thought about the one moment that determined my life. I couldn't exactly pick just one, but a couple came to mind. It made me sad to think about because most of the moments that came to mind were times when I made the wrong decision, or made no decision, and then the moment was gone. Forever.

In the movie All the King's Men, character Jack Burden is referring to a couple of things. In reference to himself, I think he's referring to a moment in his youth when he could have made love to the love of his life, Anne. However, he chose not to, even though he wanted to. Anne felt rejected and ashamed, and it killed their relationship. I think he considered that the moment that determined his life. If he'd made love to her, they probably would have ended up together and lived happily ever after. Maybe not. But he missed the moment, and it was gone forever.

There are other moments like these for the other characters. Maybe for Anne it would have been the moment in which Willie Stark, the governor of Louisiana and Jack's boss, made her certain promises in return for her "company". She could have said no, but she said yes, and the moment was gone. She broke what was left of Jack's heart and gave away what little was left of her own.

For Willie Stark himself, maybe his moment was when he was about to give a speech at a local fair after finding out that he was just a pawn in a political game. They were using him to split the vote. There was a moment before he started his speech, when he could have chosen to leave and go home, or to just give the speech they gave him. He chose neither, and gave his own angry speech which launched his own, independent campaign. The moment was gone. He ended up dead.

Perhaps Anne's brother Adam's moment was when Willie Stark offered him a job. He could have turned it down, and he did at first, but then there was a moment when he started to re-think his decision. He could have turned it down and remained dismal and broke, but left with his pride and his values. He changed his mind, took the job, and the moment was gone. He ended up dead too, after he shot Stark to death.

If I'd just . . . made love to her.
If I'd just . . . said no to Willie Stark.
If I'd just . . . left the fair and gone home to my wife.
If I'd just . . . turned the job down.

Every now and again, the "If I'd just"s echo in my mind. These moments stick in my head and they replay over and over. I dream about them. I've tossed and turned over them. I've written pages and pages about them. I've cried many tears over them.

I probably won't know if those were the moments that determined my life until I die. Only then will I know whether I let those moments go. The moments in which I was faced with a choice: do or don't; say something or say nothing; do this or do that.

I often say, to myself and to others, that I don't regret the choices I've made in my life, because they've made me who I am. I can't change how those moments passed. But If I said that I never think about those moments and wonder how my life would be if they'd passed differently, I'd be a liar.

I do wonder. If only out of some sort of twisted curiosity. But usually only when listening to a really sad song, witnessing great grief or tragedy, or after watching All the King's Men.

Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Sister

Apparently I am a horrible sister. I'm not really sure what to do about being a horrible sister and, to be honest, I don't really care. I am also most likely a horrible daughter. At least, that's what my mother probably thinks.

Oddly, I don’t give a damn that I am so horrible. Should I give a damn? I feel like I should, but I can't muster enough emotion to get a reading on the Give-A-Damn-O-Meter. Maybe that’s because I know that I’m not horrible. I’m awesome. My sister and my mom just don’t know it.

Why am I a horrible sister and daughter? I am baffled by the answer. I guess I am a horrible sister and daughter because I can't figure out how to communicate with my sister and mother effectively and in a loving way. Therefore, I choose to minimize communication and face to face contact as much as possible. I've gone through phases in which I experimented with different ways to communicate, but the success of these experiments is akin to that of the Japanese trying to translate Navajo in WWII. And I'm not altogether sure that my mom and sister don't actually speak Navajo.

Part of this “horrible” problem is that I don't particularly like my mother or sister very much. If we weren't related, I would not hang out with them. We would not be friends. I would probably avoid them. I would pity the people that were related to them. I don't enjoy spending time with them. I'm most often embarrassed by being around them in public. The way they treat and talk to and about other people makes my skin crawl. And they don't listen. They just talk. And nothing you say or don't say is what they do or don't want to hear. It's like a big freaking Rubik’s cube that I can't solve. I hate Rubik’s cubes anyway.

My strong dislike of my sister and mother kind of kill my desire to "make it work". Unfortunately, unless we are McCauley Culken, we can't divorce our families. It's not like boyfriends and girlfriends. You can't break up with your mom or your sister.

I don’t want to sound like a total jerk. I feel like I’ve gone to the ends of the earth to figure out how to have good relationships with my sister and mom. I have yet to find anything that works. I try to focus on the good encounters we’ve had, but they are few and far between.

I remember a night earlier this year when I went into my sister’s room and laid on her bed and cried and cried. She just hugged me and wiped away my tears without asking questions. When the tears stopped she told me she loved me and that everything would work out.

There was a night last year when I called my mom on the phone, crying my eyes out. I only called her because everyone else I called didn't answer. It was a last resort. But I called her, and she just listened while I cried and sobbed and couldn't get any words out at all. She didn't offer criticism, or opinions, or I told you so's. She just told me she loved me and that I was strong enough to get through it. And she prayed for me. This blew my mind.

I remember calling my mom several months after my grandma had died and listening in silence as she broke down weeping on the phone, talking about the grief she felt at watching her parents’ things being auctioned off for pennies, like they never existed.

Why is it we can only truly connect with each other when we are feeling our most broken? Our most desperate? Our most afraid? Why is it that tragedy is often the only thing that brings us together?

**********************************************

This may sounds silly, but I have often pictured my mom and I sitting at a Starbucks drinking lattes.

I imagine that we sit there for hours and talk about life, and laugh, and really get to know each other.

I tell her everything I'm feeling and she offers me wisdom on how to deal with life.

I listen to her talk about how she grew up and the things she experienced and how they made her who she is.

As I listen to her talk, I come to respect her more and understand what she's been through.

I've pictured this scene a lot, but I don't think this picture will ever become a reality. I don't know if that's sad or not. It's just the way it is.

I’m not really sad, because I’ve lived this scene many times over, just not with my mom or my sister. I’ve had many moms and sisters over the years. Whenever I get sad, depressed, or angry about the crappy relationships I have with my sister and mom, I think about my other sisters and moms.

And I think about how they don’t think I’m horrible at all.

They think I’m awesome.

And I think they’re awesome.

That’s how it should be.

When do you tell the truth? A tricky question . . .

Scene: Middle School, 1997

7th grade me and my friend standing at our lockers.

Random 7th grade friend: So did you see Pam’s hair?

7th grade me: Yeah. I did. It looks terrible. It looks like she stuck her head in a bucket of bleach and then stuck her finger in a light socket.

Random 7th grade friend (looking nervously behind me): Oh, well, I think it looks okay.

7th grade me: What? Are you kidding? It looks like crap. I bet all her hair falls out.

Random 7th grade friend (looking even more nervously behind me): Um . . .

7th grade me (slowly turning around to find Pam standing behind me): *10 seconds of awkward silence* Uh, hi, Pam. Your hair looks great!

Pam storms off and never speaks to me again.

We’ve all been there. Well, maybe not, but we’ve all had friends or family members get terrible hair-cuts, perms, or dye jobs. I'm talking bad highlights, hair sticking up in different directions, bald spots.

You see, I always notice hair cuts. Always. And if one of my friends gets a really bad hair-cut, I say nothing. I would rather say nothing than lie to them and tell them their hair looks good when it doesn't. What if they take all these people telling them their hair looks good seriously? Then they continue to cut their hair the same way for the next 20 years? Do you really want to be responsible for that?

I was telling this to my friend Chris the other day and he asked me what I would do if my friend asked me directly what I thought of their bad hair-cut:

"I'd tell them the truth."

"You would tell them to their face that their hair looked like crap?"

"Well, I'm not going to say it like that. I'd put it a little nicer."

"Yeah, then they never speak to you again."

"Look, if you ask me what I think, I'm going to tell you. If you're not prepared for someone to tell you the truth, then don't ask."

"Fair enough."

This leads into my next question: It’s one thing to offer an unsolicited comment or opinion on a Facebook photo or someone’s latest hair-cut, but what do you say when a friend directly asks you for your opinion on something, or someone, in which your most truthful answer will not be a positive answer. What if the stakes are higher? Are there situations in which telling someone the truth will cause more harm than good?

How about the following scenarios:

Scenario #1: Your best friend’s significant other frequently says sexually suggestive things to you and flirts with you and your other friends when your friend is not around or not paying attention. Your friend is having doubts about their significant other’s fidelity, and they ask you if you think their significant other would ever cheat on them.

What do you say? Truth or lie? Half-truth? Evasive maneuvers?

Now imagine it’s their fiancée.

What do you say?

They’re getting married in a week.

What do you say now?

They’ve been married for three years and are already having problems.

Now what?

What if they’re not your best friend, but just an acquaintance? What if it’s not your friend but someone you can’t stand?

It’s not quite as simple, is it?

Scenario #2: Your significant other wants to pursue a career as a writer. You’ve read their stuff, and it’s nothing special. Maybe you’ve read more interesting stuff written on the side of a bathroom stall. They’ve already invested a lot of time and money (maybe even a college degree) into this career. They think they might be the next Hemingway or Maya Angelou. They ask you if you think they have what it takes to be successful. Is their writing good enough?

What do you say? Truth or lie? Half-truth? Evasive maneuvers?

Now imagine they’ve been rejected for the 20th time by a publisher and they are devastated.

Still the truth? Better to lie?

You’re married and they want to spend a large chunk of your savings flying around the country talking to different publishers.

Truth now?

It’s not your significant other, it’s your sibling.

Now?

It’s your son or daughter.

What do you say?

Getting more difficult isn’t it?

Scenario #3: Your aunt is dying of cancer. It’s revealed that her husband, your uncle, is having an affair with one of her close friends. Your aunt doesn’t know. She is very weak and probably only has days to live. Do you tell her the truth? Or do you pretend everything is fine?

The affair has been going on for years, even before she was sick.

Do you tell her now?

He’s fathered two children with his mistress.

Do you tell her now?

Your aunt is a millionaire and upon her passing, all her assets will pass to your uncle and his mistress. This includes all family heirlooms and properties in her possession.

How about now? You want her to die thinking he’s a great guy and devoted husband?

This last scenario actually happened in the family of a friend of mine. My friend's uncle cheated on her aunt with my friend's mother. They were sisters, and the aunt was in the hospital dying of cancer. My friend's cheating uncle was also her dad's best friend. They told the aunt the truth before she died. I don’t know how you make decisions like that.

You could think up a million scenarios, with a million different variables. I guess the question comes down to what kind of person you are. Would you rather hear the truth, even if it hurts? Or would you rather not know or be lied to, sparing your pride and your feelings.

There also has to be a distinction made between your opinion of someone or something, versus volunteering or withholding information from someone. The seriousness of trying to decide whether or not to tell someone their singing makes your ears bleed versus trying to decide whether or not to tell your friend their significant other made a pass at you is quite different. The consequences of telling the truth in these situations, or not telling the truth, are quite different.

Get Better, Not Bitter

I read something somewhere that said children of abusive or alcoholic parents will follow one of two paths in their lives: they will become just like the parents that raised them, or they will put all their effort into being nothing like them. I think I am a strange mix of the two.

You see, no matter how much you try to not be like your parents, you can't escape the fact that you are a mix of their DNA. They may or may not have raised you, but they are still a part of you. Whether you like it or not.

When my alcoholic, dysfunctional parents divorced, I told myself that I would never get a divorce. No matter what I had to do, if my marriage was in trouble, I would go to the ends of the earth to fix it. I would do it for my kids, if I had any. I would do it for myself. I would do it for my husband. I would not give up.

My dad missed out on my life from age nine to age nineteen. He always said he didn't want a nasty custody battle, but I think he just wasn't strong enough to fight. He said he thought we didn't want to see him, but I think he knew it was my mom that didn't want us to want to see him. There were many nights when my mom would scream and yell at us that I wished he would rescue us, but he never did. I told myself I would never give up on my family. I would never abandon them when they needed me.

I understand that my parents had messed up childhoods, but I never understood, and still don't, why we had to suffer for the crappy things that had happened to them. My dad's dad was married three times and was an alcoholic, just like his father before him. My dad is an alcoholic, though he won't admit it. Grandpa told dad his whole life that he was stupid, and my dad has spent his whole life trying to prove him wrong. Even though Grandpa has been dead for several years, my dad is still trying to prove him wrong. I see the pain in my dad's eyes. I see him trying to numb the pain and forget as he drinks and drinks. I don't know if he sees the pain in my eyes.

My mom grew up in an equally tumultuous home. From what I understand, my grandparents fought a lot. I think Grandpa hit Grandma, but I'm not sure how often. It got worse the older they got, the fighting, not the hitting. By the time Grandpa died, they were sleeping in separate rooms. They'd been married for over fifty years. There are a lot of other things that happened to my mom, but I'm not clear on what they are. I don't really want to know. My mom is an alcoholic, but she won't admit it. She's a very angry, lonely person.

My dad's sisters, Kathy and Carolyn, tell me that I'm a lot like my dad. I'm sensitive and loving.
My dad's brother, Tom, tells me that I'm strong like my mother. I'm independent and smart.

Those seem like good qualities. Right?

My dad is also weak. My mom has an explosive temper. Dad often pouts when he doesn't get his way. Mom shouts and slams things when she doesn't get her way. Mom and Dad can both be very controlling. Dad represses his emotions, thoughts, and feelings while mom lets it all out and holds nothing back. They have both let the crappy things that happened in their lives destroy them, their marriage, and their children.

If you saw them at church, at work, or at the grocery store, they seem normal enough. Maybe even happy, but inside, they are broken, broken people.

I never want to be like that.

My favorite quote of the year is from a book by Donald Miller. Don meets a guy that grew up in foster care because he was abandoned by his parents. He never had a family. Somehow he grew up into a normal, happy, successful person, and founded a mentor program for boys without father's. Don asked the guy how he'd turned out the way he did after everything he'd been through. The guy told Don that when terrible things happen to you, you can do one of two things: you can get better, or you can get bitter. He chose to get better. So do I.

I know that I can't erase all traces of my parents from my personality and who I am, and I wouldn't want to. However, I can choose not to carry their crap into the next generation.

I've taken an inventory of the things I need to work on and watch out for. I've shed a lot of the negativity that my mother fed into me. I've shed a lot of the anger and all of the hate she poured into me. I'm steadily lengthening the short fuse she gave me. I will hold onto the strength and perseverance she instilled in me. I will keep her sharp wit and humor. I will not throw out her constant motivation to excel in all I do.

I will get rid of the low self-esteem my father has been weighed down by his whole life. I will not stifle my feelings and emotions like my father does. I refuse to use guilt as a weapon, one that he's carried his whole life. I will love others unconditionally, as my dad loves others. I will not judge, lest I be judged, as dad understands so well. I will give the shirt off my back to whomever needs it, as dad has done many times.

With God's strength, I will get better, not bitter. I can see the result of getting bitter in my parents lives. I don't want my kids to see that in me.

What People Really Think

It's always interesting to find out what people really think of you. Most of the time, we only find out what people really think of us during an argument with that person, or through the gossip of a mutual friend or family member. People very rarely tell you what they really think of you right to your face. And if they are telling you what they "think" of you, and not what they really think of you, they are probably only telling you the nice, positive things.

Most of the time, we express our negative thoughts or opinions about someone because we want to hurt them, or because we are responding to some negative thought or opinion they directed at us. Very rarely do these negative thoughts or opinions come out in a productive, calm discussion, which is aimed at bettering your relationship. It reminds me of a time when I was in a very nasty argument with my friend Tom.

The argument started at our weekly Bible study, of all places. It began with a disagreement about whose responsibility it was to bring desert that day. Rediculous, right? It’s important to note here that Tom and I already had a pretty rocky “friendship”. We mostly tolerated each other because he was dating my roommate and we hung out with all the same people. As the argument escalated, Tom and I started taking shots at each other.

It turned into a back and forth. Each of us trying to find something more hurtful to say than the other person. We knew each other well and knew which buttons to push and how to prey on the other person’s weaknesses. We might as well have had swords or light sabers in our hands. It was a fight to the death and Tom won. I will never forget the last stab that Tom made. I will never forget the words he spoke. I will never forget how I felt physical pain when his words hit me.

A disagreement about whose turn it was to bring cheesecake ended with screaming and yelling, lots of profanity, slamming doors, and me speeding away from the gathering in a seething, tearful rage.

I remember feeling so amazed after Tom and I’s argument at the things he had said. It baffled me that someone who appeared to be my friend had so many awful, hateful things to say about me. Did he really think and feel all those things? What about the things I'd said about him? Were they true? Some were and some weren’t. We think a lot of things about people that we wouldn’t, under normal circumstances, say to their faces.

Arguments like this are so damaging, because they make you question everything that person has ever said to you or about you and vice versa. Apologies can be made later, in which you say things like, “I didn’t really mean what I said.” But if someone said that to me, my response would be, “You didn’t? Then why did you say it?” You have to question whether or not there’s a small grain of truth behind what was said. And even though you probably respond with, “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it,” it’s a lie. It’s not okay. I don’t know if you meant it or not.

I was never able to trust Tom again. We tried to be friends several times after that and it never worked. I haven’t spoken to him in almost a year. It would have been longer if I hadn’t seen him at a mutual friend’s wedding last summer.

“Reckless words pierce like a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing.”
Proverbs 12:18

“They sharpen their tongues like swords and aim their words like deadly arrows.”
Psalm 64:3

Cruel words are like arrows. Once you shoot out an arrow, you can never get it back. Just as encouraging words can give confidence to a man his entire life, discouraging words can beat a man down his entire life. Words can bring life or death. A sharp tongue is indeed a deadly weapon, capable of killing a person’s, confidence, self-worth, and even killing relationships themselves.

It's amazing to see how arguments can escalate. You start out telling your husband he's irresponsible for not cleaning up after himself, and ten minutes later you're screaming at him that you haven't trusted him since you caught him flirting with one of your friends at a dinner party last summer. How does it get from A to Q? Maybe it’s because whenever someone says something unpleasant about us, our response is to counter it with something unpleasant about them. This is really just a ploy to get the focus off of our flaws and failings and onto theirs. It works something like this:

"Oh, well you think I'm *insert unpleasant adjective or descriptive phrase here*, well I think you're *insert more unpleasant adjective or descriptive phrase here*!"

(Also related to "Oh, well I *insert something unpleasant you did here*, well don't forget about when you *insert something more unpleasant they did here*!")

I think the problem is that, instead of discussing things with our friends and family, we let them build up. Small offenses or slights get pushed below the surface. We tell ourselves it’s not that big of a deal or it’s not worth causing an argument. You may tell yourself you’re overreacting or just being silly. But then all these built up emotions, thoughts, and feelings explode at the most inconvenient times.

Whenever situations like this have happened to me, the one thing I wonder most often is, “Why didn’t you tell me you felt this way? If what I said about this or that made you feel that way, why didn’t you say something?”

It all just makes me wish people were braver. More honest. If you have a problem with someone, and it isn’t something petty, you should talk to them about it. Instead of waiting for an argument to throw it in their face.