MY DRUNK WORDS

 Although we may have no recollection of it, those who surround us always remember.

 __________________________________

There are headlines tucked inside our ordinary conversations, like exquisite and knowing poetry written of our lives.

This one delivered as if a throw-away wedged between the important parts of what was being spoken, yet so intriguing that it burrowed under my skin—

She stops in the middle of what she’s doing [which is cleaning my kitchen] to outwardly contend with a long-ago misunderstanding between a former friend, the hurt of it still raw and maligning to her soul—

“My drunk words,” she slips in between confessing of something she said and doesn’t remember, of the resulting bitterness and resentment still held tightly by her friend who won’t let it go.

I’m struck by the cadence of these three words strewn together, memorable and haunting, moved by the relevance of them in my own life.

This is not a story of addiction, or even the occasional desire to imbibe. This is a study of our connection to what we say.

My drunk words—I visualize the words falling out like little bits of clutter, gathered, and then tossed away.

In the span of a single day we are gifted 1440 minutes to transcend the ordinary conversations that come too often packaged as distraction, something more important on our minds.

I marvel [not too big a word] at what could happen if we approached every encounter as something potentially life-changing, even divine.

When is the last time you connected brain to spirit, then spirit to mouth?

My drunk words. I think it’s not so much that we say things that are hurtful, as that we don’t say anything really meaningful at all.

Meaningful takes investment:

First, to look up from what we are doing and look directly into another’s face.

Then to ask the kind of question that invites [even demands] reflection, connection, heartful response.

“Hello!” I call over to my new neighbor as she looks away.

If am “too busy” to engage with another of God’s creation, then what am I doing here at all?

My drunk words. I am convicted, even desperate to recover the things I’ve said in distraction that I didn’t really mean. Even more haunting is the thought of having not said what I’ve felt. 

You, who are extraordinary. Did you know that there is no shame in confronting yourself?—
Have you been absent from your own body,
absent from connecting with what you’re feeling and unsure why?
Have you been superficial with the ones you love for fear they will discover you’re hiding something, or for fear all the wrong words will come falling out?

I wish for each of us to encounter someone who holds our words as sacred and important, asking us to clarify, or repeat ourselves—
One who gifts us with the time to organize our thoughts,
then extends the rare luxury of feeling unjudged, unrushed.  
And, in the end, offers grace,
blowing away the chaff, leaving only the grain.

This young woman who comes to clean my house. She who once spread harsh and unremembered words about. Through her vulnerability she has prompted me to once again determine to speak with intention, to hear with my heart.

 Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then, with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away—Dinah Maria Craik

NOTES:

My drunk words. When I first heard these words uttered in my kitchen, a moment from my past came falling down. While difficult, I feel compelled to tell you, although [sheepishly] I am folding it quietly into the Notes.

I am not a drinker and never really have been, although I feel an uncomfortable and necessary confession coming from someplace deep within. While this little detour in the story is not the story in-and-of-itself, it is powerful in its telling.

In celebration of my first real job [a very long time ago] my boss’s boss treated our entire office to drinks at a favorite local restaurant.

The evening, as I remember it, was permeated with harmless fun. And then, upon getting into my car in the parking lot, I neglected to turn my headlights on. I was promptly escorted out of my vehicle by a police officer who [in reflection] may have saved my life.

The shame of the ensuing back-of-the-police-car ride was more than a young and self-respecting professional woman could bear.

To absolve myself of my unbearable humiliation and disgrace, I called the one person whose opinion mattered the most— my Daddy—immediately upon arriving back home.

“Daddy, I sobbed. I’ve done a terrible thing.”

At the end of my impossible story I asked him [not believing I would ever get over the ordeal],

 “What are we going to do about this?”
This is how my Daddy replied:

“It’s up to you what you decide to do, but as far as I’m concerned it is forgotten.”

The most remarkable words ever formed were spoken when I needed to hear them the most. And just like that, a lifetime of shame was avoided. In that moment, I was able to forgive myself.

I imagine as you read this story-within-a-story you will have your own judgement to apply—
You may be gobsmacked by the possibility that this could happen.
You may be reflecting that something similarly deplorable has happened in your own life.

The take-away is not what happened, but the reaction to it that I want you to let sink in.

This excruciating and tender exchange between daughter and Daddy.
I wonder at what would happen if we orchestrated more conversations in this way—
The vulnerability of it. Stripped of pride.
It allows another to look straight into our soul.
There is no ugliness in what is seen, His creation.
Only the likeness of Him.
If we put aside all judgement, we are compelled only to love.
No other response is possible in this space.

ABOUT THIS IMAGE: I have written of words as if a woman speaking about her favorite children—often and with great passion. Even through the darkest season of my illness I didn’t miss one Saturday to share some of my most precious and sacred words with you.

I love this image of me, captured by my husband during a writing sesson. Under that [real hair] wig, I’m completely bald.
Over these five years I have prayed:
That God would use my words to touch your heart.
That your life would in some small or important way be impacted, even changed.