Healing from word-wounds

“Sticks and stone may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.“

We’re all familiar with this little singsongy ditty and most of us have probably “sang” it at times when we were growing up. Brave words that really held no truth because, if we’re honest, word-wounds really do hurt.

I have heard some who have suffered from physical and verbal abuse say that the physical wounds usually heal over time, but the verbal wounds, the ones you can’t see, take the longest to heal.

If you’re like me, there are words that instantly come to your mind as you read this that you had spoken to you, maybe years and years ago, but you can still hear them as clearly as if they were said yesterday.

There are words that you can brush aside fairly easily because the untruth rings loud and clear. But then there are those other kinds of words. They are like a poisoned dart that goes straight to your heart. And that dart has barbs that grip tight and seems to be impossible to pull out. So impossible that it stays in there for years and years because it’s too painful to deal with.

Many, many years ago, I had words spoken to me like that. It was a “simple” comment, really. It wasn’t spoken harshly or with a raised voice. There wasn’t a discussion building up to it, so it actually took me quite off guard.

Looking back, I think it was because I was so taken off guard that it never crossed my mind to ask about the comment and what the person actually meant by it.

Our family had been in Canada for almost two years and a couple from our home church came up to visit us. We hadn’t seen them since we had left the states so we were enjoying late night visits and showing them around the little village and the ministry God had called us to.

One afternoon I was folding laundry for our family of 8 while visiting with the wife. She followed me back to my bedroom as I took some clothes to put away. I can remember it like it was yesterday: she stood there in my room and told me that I just wasn’t the same person I was before we left for Canada. I don’t remember asking her what she meant, but I knew she was implying the change wan’t a good one. I don’t remember her explaining what she saw and what she thought was wrong with me. I just heard someone I respected speak these words to me.

For over a year I prayed and cried and begged God to show me what what wrong with me and to help me fix it. I read my Bible, looking for answers and help. I talked to my husband and to Godly friends, I read biographies about missionaries who left all and followed God, all the while admitting their weaknesses and how God helped them overcome…looking for help and answers, yet not finding one.

Several months later we were back in the states to visit with family and friends and this lady was there. Again, she looked at me and told me I was really different and again, I knew she meant it wasn’t a good thing. And again I don’t have any idea why I didn’t ask her what she meant. So I just continued on my journey of trying to “fix” what was wrong with me.

One year later I saw this lady again and no, she didn’t tell me there was something wrong with me…she told me I was worse than she had ever seen me.

Well ok.

I cried so hard that day. I remember laying on the bed with my husband that Sunday afternoon and my heart was beating out of my chest. I wondered what in the world was wrong with me. I wondered why God wouldn’t show me. Why could she see it and I couldn’t?

I don’t know why I didn’t wonder if perhaps this lady didn’t really understand the changes she saw in me and mistook it for something wrong or bad. I don’t know why I didn’t question her or her words.

You see, the first time she spoke those words to me was only two years after we had buried our 5 year old son, Benjamin. Two years since we had loaded up all our earthly goods and moved to Canada as missionaries. We were living far from family and friends (no email or internet in the 90’s), in a very remote village (the only bank in town was in the back of our one and only grocery store). We were loving God and serving Him the best we knew how. I was homeschooling our children and had recently given birth to our seventh baby.

It wasn’t until years later that I realized it was something that was still festering inside of me. I didn’t realize I looked to others to determine if I was “ok” or not. I didn’t realize this was a problem in my thinking…until Christmas of 2020.

That December, amidst the uncertainty of a world pandemic, we had the blessing of our family all being together to celebrate the holidays. One of the things I was excited about doing that year was surprising the family with the old VHS tapes from when we first came to Canada in 1993.

The videos played and we watched, laughed, talked and ate. So many good memories and it was sweet to see the kids when they were so little.

Also that December, I was reading the book, “The Choice” by Dr. Edith Edgar. (She is the only living female survivor from the Holocaust). Between Dr. Edie’s powerful book and watching my little family in those videos, a letter formed in my heart then poured out onto paper.  It was totally a God-thing, as words I wish I had known to speak all those years ago came and brought a long awaited healing to my heart and mind.

Dear ______,        December 25 2020

Many years ago, November of 1995 I believe, you made a comment that crushed my heart and left me reeling for years and years.

You told me that I was “really different” now, and there was something was wrong with me.  No more details.  No specifics or godly advice.  No hug or prayers said.  Just that comment; like a stinging slap across my face.

That comment was made only 2 years after we had buried our first born son, Benjamin, who had fought brain cancer for 1-1/2 years.

This evening I’ve watched some home videos from 6 months to 2 years of coming to Canada.  I’m behind the camera most of the time, but do you want to know what I see?

I see a young mom of 5, then 6 adorable little kids, that laughed and cheered them all on.  A mom that jumped on the trampoline with them.  A mom that went on walks and carried baby Gracie on my back.  I saw a mom that hung clothes on the line and a mom that gathered all 5 kids around the table to snap green beans, while baby Micah Benjamin watched from his jumparoo.

I saw a mom that kept living even when a huge piece of her had died.  I saw a mom and a wife care for her babies and sweet husband, instead of curling up in a ball and dying herself.

That mom left all she had ever known just 3 months after the death of her son.  She left family, friends and one tiny little grave, and drove over 1,500 miles to “the end of the road” wilderness to help her husband give the good news to the beautiful Native Indian people of Pickle Lake, Ontario and the Osnaburgh Reserve.

You looked me in the eyes and said those words.  Told me I was different.  Let me feel the disapproval.  And I let those words hang over me like a dark cloud, for certainly they had to be true, since they were spoken by someone I really respected.

I never really stopped and considered the changes that went on in my heart and mind all those years ago, but watching myself in the video sit around a bonfire with my 6 precious babies, licking sticky marshmallow off of Micah’s tiny fingers, my head lifts a little higher and I smile inside because – I don’t see someone messed up.  I see someone stronger and someone determined to keep going on in spite of tragedy.  In spite of hard words spoken that haunted me for years.  I see a wife that stood by her faithful husband as they served together in a lonely, remote village. 

I see a woman who after those insensitive words were spoken, cry out to God to show her what she needed to change.  And despite not getting any answers, she walked on for God anyway.

With trembling knees, that wife and husband kept their eyes on their faithful God, and arm-in-arm chose to keep serving Him.

Only because of Him,

Mitzi

As I sit here and reread this letter and remember the videos of our little family so soon after loosing Ben, I marvel at the ability to go on.  To not quit.  To not get bitter and angry at God for allowing bad things to happen.  And not get bitter and angry at the person that spoke those words to me when I just wanted someone to care. 

I don’t remember ever having the conscious thought, “I sure was hurt by her words and disapproval but I’m going to pull up my big girl panties and just keep going.”  It wasn’t a conscious thought to not quit.  It was a choice that I made to keep reading God’s Word, and to keep believing it. Every day.  Keeping my heart as right as I knew how and striving to walk as close to God as I could.

Did I walk around my house with my hands folded in prayer and a halo perfectly adjusted on my head?  Oh goodness no!  I failed more times than I can count.  Yes I had my struggles but, in spite of myself, I chose to believe to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. 

It was something that I had to do every single day. Like the morning I was sitting at my little table grading the kid’s school work…I was grieving for my sweet Benjamin and God so gently whispered in my ear, “It’s ok to grieve, little momma, but don’t forget about the other precious children I’ve given you to love and care for.”  I didn’t feel like He was rebuking me, but just giving me the nudge that I needed to not wallow so much in my grief that I forgot the job He still had for me to do. 

Maybe God is nudging you to not wallow so much in your hurt and grief that you forget the job He still has for you to do.  Know that I am cheering you on and want you to know that you will never, ever regret saying “yes” to God’s way.