Wholesome words?

While on vacation in Florida last winter, my husband and I missed the turn to get to our hotel and became snarled in rush hour traffic in Orlando. I joked, melodramatically, “This traffic is so bad I’m just gonna die. Die, die, die!” My 15 month old daughter exclaimed from the backseat, “Die, die, die!” Immediately, I slapped my hand over my mouth.

My daughter is now almost two years old, and I warn everyone who comes into our house, “Be careful what you say – she repeats everything.” And, while “Hannah is a smart cookie” may sound cute coming from her mouth, many other phrases do not. An unusually verbal toddler has revealed to me the potential beauty or ugliness of the tongue. Do certain expressions genuinely sound worse coming from my toddler than they sound coming from me?

I remember another incident a few summers ago. A friend and I enjoyed picking blueberries at a local farm. While generously filling two buckets with the best berries we could find, we chatted about our childhood and our experiences in college. Though we talked about some difficult situations, both of us avoided complaining or gossiping, and we shared how God had worked in our lives. As we walked into the store to pay for our berries, an older lady stopped us. She apologized for eavesdropping but said that our conversation had blessed her and she thanked God for people like us. I smiled, a bit embarrassed, and shook her hand. A few minutes later, I stopped to think. What if I had spoken bitterly about my past instead of sharing how God had helped me to grow in the midst of my struggles? If I had mentioned my faith in God then, what would this woman have thought of Him?

Ephesians 4:29 says, “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.” Do my words truly build others up? Unfortunately, many times they do not. So, now I ask myself, “What if my daughter repeated my words? Would I feel embarrassed or pleased?” If I would feel embarrassed, then I must carefully consider how they sound when I speak them, and if my words will benefit those who listen.

Giving Thanks

"Let's pray," I say to my toddler, Hannah, as four-month-old Ben cries in the other room.
"Dear God," she begins, "Thank you for the day. Thank you for the food. Thank you for Mama and Daddy..."
"And Baby Ben?" I prompt her.
"And the books, and the chair, and the stroller..." she rambles on, refusing to thank God for her grumpy little brother.
Finally, I give up. "In Jesus name," I say.
"AMEN!" she proclaims, ready to enjoy her breakfast.
I chuckle at her tiny rebellion against this fussy tyrant who steals so much of her Mama's attention. But I realize that I sometimes behave just like my two year old. I Thessalonians 5:18 says, "Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus."
"Thank me for your past," God says.
"Of course, God. I have so many good memories."
"Thank me for the heartache, for wounds and betrayals, for times of lonliness so intense that even I seemed far away, for even then I was with you, and I used those times to make you the person you are today."
Like my daughter, I would rather change the subject, thanking God for the weather, for my children, for the obvious good in my life. As my daughter devours her banana cereal, I take a brief moment to thank God for everything he gives, especially for my rebellious toddler and for grumpy Baby Ben.

In the Dark

Crickets and trolleys. The latter rumble loudly punctuates the incessantly droning insects. The humidity wraps me in its steamy embrace, yet I still drape my damp sheet across my middle, allowing only my arms and legs to poke free. The box fan in my window blows mildly cooler night air into my room, but the breeze merely glances across my bare knees without relieving the rest of my body. I tremble, clutching my sheet tightly as my armor against the dark.

Ah, the darkness... my undefeatable foe. It creeps into every corner and sends leering shadows towards my bed. In the blackness, even light seems ominous. That flicker - is it a burglar's flashlight playing off the wall or simply headlights from a passing car? Or perhaps it is the dance of flames, a fire devouring my home around me. "God protect me!" I plead as I cower in my bed.

Even now, as an adult, darkness equals fear to me. Yet, at times, greater darkness has engulfed me than on those sticky summer nights of my childhood, and sometimes, my protection seems as flimsy as a humid sheet held firmly to my chest. Even now, my best defense remains a whispered, "Help me, God."