Speak Love: Making Your Words Matter

Introduction: Words Matter

I started writing on February 21, 2006. Wait.

Let me back up.

I’ve always loved writing and reading. My maternal grandmother was a high school librarian and my paternal grandparents owned a used bookstore, so I probably teethed on novels.

I read voraciously as a child—it was rare that a book was not within reach. I read in the car, when I should have been sleeping, at the dinner table, and in the bathtub. Which, I am sorry to tell you, did lead to a few soaked books, namely Harriet the Spy and Starring Sally J. Freedman As Herself. Have you ever dropped a book in the bathtub? The panic-induced behavior that follows is hilarious and splashy and full of wrinkled pages and regrets.

I only remember attempting to write one book as a kid, a dramatic retelling of a seventh-grade library book where the main character’s best friend is in the hospital. My rendition—written in pencil on lined paper in a three-ring notebook—was three chapters long and absolutely terrible, but the original story was pretty terrible too (and not much longer than my version), so I blame my first literary failure on bad mentorship.

While I may not be one of those authors who wrote books throughout her childhood, I always told stories. Maybe it is because I’m from Georgia and this is the Southern way, but my memories are full of storytelling nights on the front porch or at my grandparents’ house across the driveway or down at the local campground every August when it was Camp Meeting. For you guys not from around these parts, quick explanation: The campground is full of cabins and then one big pavilion. Every August, families from East Cobb United Methodist Church go across the street—yes, the campground is literally across the street from the church buildings—and stay there, and they have church meetings every night. And at every meal and in the cool of the evening, people sit around and tell stories. I soaked them up, hearing tales from one hundred years ago in that very spot.

Here’s an interesting side note about Camp Meeting: When I was a senior in high school, my youth pastor hit a line drive in the softball game and the softball (which is not even a little bit soft) hit me right in the nose. And broke it. And I have the lump on my nose to this day to prove it. Check it out next time we’re in the same place.

See? I’m a storyteller.

I come from a long line of storytellers and story-enjoyers. Unfortunately for me, fairly early in my life, ugly crept into the purity of storytelling. And I started to lie.

My first real memory of lying was in the first grade. Alex, in my class, had a crush on an older girl who rode my bus. I don’t recall her name, but she was tall and had stringy blonde hair to her shoulders. I told him she was my cousin. He started bringing toy cars to school to give to her; he would hand them to me expecting me to give them to her since, you know, she was my blood relative and all.

Truth? I never spoke to her once. I lined the cars up on my bookshelf and told Alex that stringy-haired blonde loved them. I told elaborate stories of how she responded when I gave them to her.

Remember, I am a storyteller. It may not have been true, but it was a good story.

It’s a complicated tale, recalling to you all the reasons I chose to lie as a kid: to be popular, to be loved, to be right. But I remember thinking that the truth wasn’t enough—that it wasn’t sad enough, or exciting enough, or dramatic enough. I needed to spice it up. Here’s just a little sampling of the things I told people (and these are just the ones I remember; who knows how many more there are): I saw an angel in my bed in sixth grade, I kissed a boy during play practice in eighth grade, I had to go home from a sleepover because I had started my period in fourth grade (when actually I had merely peed in my pants … you’re welcome for that story), I lost four pounds in one day, and I knew the twin brother of the boy on the Barney television show.

Spoiler alert: the actor on Barney doesn’t have a twin brother.

Here’s the kicker: I was a Christian. I accepted Jesus in my heart as a five-year-old, and I meant it. Through elementary and middle school, I honestly was growing in my relationship with the Lord and I did begin to recognize that lying was a sin. I started to feel that twinge of guilt that comes on immediately after you do anything wrong—steal, lie, cheat, whatever. I slowly began to replace the lies with truth, and started spending time reading the Bible, though sporadically at best. But anytime you can put truth in you, no matter how little, it will wash out some lies.

I grew and matured in my faith, and in my desire to speak truth over lies, throughout high school and college. I knew God had forgiven me and I knew I was actively working on speaking the truth all the time. In the winter of 2006, I was a twenty-five-year-old elementary school teacher living in Marietta, Georgia, and truth was my friend, not lies. I was working through Beth Moore’s Believing God Bible Study, when she introduced me to a city called Gilgal.

Week eight of that study is titled Believing God to Get You to Your Gilgal. This city was once the place of the Israelites’ greatest defeat. In Joshua 4–5, God brings them back to that place, gives them a huge victory, forgives them, and restores them. Beth says, Consider our Gilgals the places where we realize that God has rolled away our reproach, proved us victorious in a do-over (an opportunity to go back and get something right), or taken us full circle in a significant way.

That night, February 21, 2006, when I underlined that sentence in the Believing God workbook with my green pen, I knew immediately what God was doing with my life. He was giving me a chance to go back and get it right as a storyteller.

So I set the workbook aside and pulled my computer onto my lap and began to type. Six pages later, I exhaled.

Here’s part of what I wrote that day, February 21, 2006.

And here is my Gilgal, or at least one of the parts of my Gilgal. The cycle was one of lies and deception and I believe He’s bringing me full circle to a place where instead of declaring lies for my own glory, I will declare truth for His glory.

Those words? That day? That’s when this book was born, but I didn’t know it yet. I dreamed of being a writer, and now it is my full-time job.

Seven years later, seven being God’s number of completion, I’m writing a book on the power of words and how to use your words well to make a difference for Christ.

And that, my friends, is a full circle. Gilgal.

Nice to Meet You

My life is pretty different today than it was in 2006. Now I’m a proud resident of Nashville, Tennessee. I lead a college small group and spend my days writing books, blogs, or tweets, and planning for speaking events. I also hang out with my friends and eat Mexican food every chance I get, go to great concerts and sporting events, and pretty much have a great time. But some of the best moments of my days? Just sitting around and talking with my closest friends.

I hope that’s what you feel like we’re doing. And now that I’ve told you that I was a liar as a kid, I kinda feel like we are friends. Just sitting down, across from each other, at my favorite Nashville coffee shop. And with our hands wrapped around warm mugs, let’s have a real conversation about God and words and things that matter.¹

I have been thinking about some things. I’ve been having conversations with God and other people, and I think we should talk too. My life in the last year has taken some major shifts and turns—I lived in Nashville, then I was a missionary to college students in Edinburgh, Scotland, and now I’m living back here in Nashville, where I write books and speak to audiences of teenagers. And today, I’m wearing very trendy boots in Portland Brew, my coffee shop/office of choice. And during that transition, I’ve had a realization.

The transition was pretty quick, by the way. Like, some of my clothes still smelled of Scottish detergent kind of fast. One day in July 2012, I flew from Edinburgh to Phoenix, and things have never been the same.

Your Words Matter

I wore my lucky shirt that day in July in the heat of Phoenix. I had only owned it for approximately three weeks, a birthday gift from some of my besties, but I knew it was lucky. Short-sleeved and navy blue with tiny birds all over it, and once paired with skinny jeans and sparkly flats, I was set to go. It was my first Girls of Grace speaking event and I was ready to rock it.

Or I was ready to throw up. Depending on the minute. Because sister here was nervous. Like whoa nervous.

After leaving Scotland, here I was in Phoenix, Arizona, jet-lagged and scared, speaking on a topic that was new to me: the power of words. Well, it was new to me in the stand up in front of thousands of girls and talk about it kind of way. I paced around the church all day while the event was happening, not sure where I was supposed to sit or stand or rest or read. I introduced myself to people who didn’t know me (almost everyone), and oh, did I mention this? My table was empty.

Yep, five boxes of my first book, Perfectly Unique, never showed up.

So that made me feel like puking too. Not only was I the new girl speaker/author, I was the new girl speaker/author with an empty book table.

(Do you feel like throwing up for me? Thanks. That’s real friendship.)

But like the good little soldier I am, I trudged forward. Other speakers killed on that stage all day, and then lunch passed, and before I knew it, I was being miked and it was my turn.

When the host introduced me, she said my book title wrong and was confused by my self-description of being a nerd. (I am a nerd, by the way. And proudly. DFTBA.² I love the library, shows on PBS, sleeping with socks on, the Internet, and playing the French horn.)

So I went out on stage with two strikes against me and an empty book table. Huzzah!

There’s this thing that happens when I speak, which is between me and God. It’s like the whole time I’m talking I’m totally focused on the words and the audience and the next point, but I have one ear turned upward to hear if God is whispering anything. When I’m onstage, I feel like He is super focused on the moment and we are co-speaking. It’s hard to explain but super sweet.

It happened that day in Phoenix. I felt Him with me. And as I talked about the power of words and truth and how we were meant to create life with our words, every sentence became more and more true.

Afterward, girls rushed to my table. Yes, the empty one.

Do you know what they wanted?

(Not books, I hope. Sigh …)

They wanted to talk.

They wanted to tell me how they were verbally bullied by other girls. They told stories of heartbreaking words others had said to them, how they understood some of the stories I shared. They said to me, I love Jesus and I want to use my words to honor Him. Moms thanked me, repeatedly, for saying the things they were teaching at home: to use words for good, not evil. Then other women—the youth leaders and small group leaders—teared up and spilled their guts too.

And y’all? I was all, We’ve hit a nerve here. I realized the topic was important, but didn’t know it was THIS important. I had no idea.

Words. Words have done this.

I was stunned. Insert previously mentioned realization here: Your words matter.

But after many more Girls of Grace events and literally hundreds of conversations with women and thousands of teens hearing this message, this is the truth: Words kill. And words give life.

1. I’ll have a soy chai. There are two reasons that I will now explain: I don’t drink dairy and I don’t drink coffee. Luckily, I actually prefer the taste of soy in combo with chai tea. (But not the foam they put on top—yuck. That stuff tastes like it came out of the ocean by way of some man’s boot.)

2. For the uninitiated, that’s Don’t Forget to Be Awesome. Google Vlogbrothers and/or Nerdfighters now if you’ve haven’t before—I’ll wait.

PART 1

Conversations with God

When I used to teach elementary school, one of my priorities was learning my students’ names. I would stare at each face every morning of that first week and repeat names in my mind until they stuck. Every time I called on someone, I called that kid by name. Repetition was my friend, and within two days I had a good grip on most of the kids, and by the end of the first week, I was money.

I still do the same thing when I meet new friends: I say their name too much. It’s probably annoying to some people, but unfortunately for those around me, it doesn’t annoy me. So I keep doing it. It ensures that I can remember them in the future.

At least, it usually does. Sometimes, not so much.

In thirty-three years on this planet, I’ve met a lot of people and I’ve tried to remember a lot of names. Unfortunately, I think my brain may be full. I keep meeting people and not remembering their name, just like trying to shove just ONE MORE MARSHMALLOW in your mouth during the classic youth group game Chubby Bunny. That last marshmallow usually pops out and takes some others with it … or you choke.

I’ve been choking a lot lately when it comes to remembering names. I accidentally hurt people’s feelings and make them feel unimportant, and it makes me feel sick. I am flawed and human, and I offend other humans when I can’t remember their names. It’s the worst.

But God never forgets. He knows our names, each of us, and more than that He knows our hearts. In fact, He knows how many hairs are on my head and on your head and on my dad’s head, though his is a much easier count than most. (Bald joke. Sorry, Dad.)

God knows your voice and loves to hear from you. You don’t have to introduce yourself every time you pray, just like you don’t have to introduce yourself to your parents every morning at breakfast. He knows you. He wants you to talk to Him. And He is always speaking too. So let’s learn how to carry on conversations with God.

CHAPTER 1

The Power of Words

Reckless words pierce like a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing.

—Proverbs 12:18

God Spoke

Before there was Earth as we know it, there were words. God spoke long before we ever even took a breath. And God said, ‘Let there be light.’ Genesis 1:3—the third verse in the whole Bible. That’s pretty early for God to start using words. But He did. God spoke. And the world began. That’s it. He spoke and there was an ocean, and He spoke and beaches blocked the water from overtaking the land. He spoke and giraffes poked out their long necks, stars shined, dogs wagged their tails, trees blossomed, humans breathed.

God could have created any way He wanted to, right? I mean, He could have coughed out clouds or molded hippos with His hands; He could have merely thought about mountains and they would be there.

But He chose to use words to create. And it was good.

Every time God speaks in the Bible, things change. You can see it throughout the Old Testament and the New Testament. Whether it is a circumstance, a heart, or a weather pattern, things change when the Father says it or Jesus commands it. Remember? It was THE WORD that became flesh (see John 1:1).

And we are made in His image, modeled after Him. The One who creates life with words, that is our makeup, our DNA.

We do the same thing.

Create

We have two options when we use our words: we can build or we can destroy. The Bible puts it even more seriously than that:

Proverbs 18:21

The tongue has the power of life and death. (NIV)

Words kill, words give life. (The Message)

And that’s true for you too, isn’t it? I know it is true for me. I can tell you story after story of how someone’s words gave me life, built me up, strengthened me. And I can tell you stories of how words have broken my heart.

They. Are. Powerful.

I know this because I’ve felt it over and over. But this one time in seventh grade left a defining mark on my heart. Words changed me forever.

That year, my social studies teacher was Mr. Samson. His classroom was the first one on the left. It had lots of windows and the desks were squished together. I sat between two boys and behind my