Recently, I heard someone share their story of recovery. It was a powerful story—and he told it well. As he spoke, I could relate to how he felt before he picked up a drink—those feelings of being on the outside looking in, of not belonging anywhere, of being misunderstood. He talked about feeling lonely, resentful, and scared, and it brought back all those memories for me.
Then, he talked about how he picked up his first drink, and how it made him feel like he had finally joined the human race. His words had that unmistakable ring of truth to them, and I found myself nodding quite often. I even laughed out loud several times—not at him, but with him—that healing laughter of recognition that says, Oh, you did that, too?
But the best part—where he choked up, in fact—was when he realized that God had spared his life. And now, he was striving to become the man God always wanted him to be.
My friend spoke from his heart, and his message cut straight through to my heart. But the next day, something kept nagging at me—and it was something I really didn’t want to think about.
Well, when that happens, I know better than to delay. Whatever it is, it needs investigation; so I took a few minutes to reflect. All the elements of a good story were there: he had shared what it used to be like, what happened, and what it was like now. The words he spoke had depth and weight—he obviously understood what he was talking about, and he had plenty of experience to back it all up. He hadn’t been boisterous, loud, obnoxious, or dull. But ….
Suddenly, I recognized what had been bothering me, in the form of an old memory. You see, the first time I shared my story, I was very nervous; and as I sat back down next to my best friend in recovery, I whispered, “How did I do? I can’t remember a word I just spoke!”
He grinned and whispered back, “Then you must have told the truth, because you only have to remember your lies!”
We both snickered at that, then his face turned serious. “But does it make sense to describe the best thing that has ever happened in your life with words that you probably would never say in a polite setting?”
I hung my head in shame. Years of drinking had taken their toll on my language, and yes, I’d used some words that were less than impressive to describe how happy I was with my newfound sobriety.
It had been that way with my friend, too—albeit to a much lesser extent. Most of what he’d shared was beautiful. But a few words used to punctuate his feelings had discolored all the beautiful ones.
Now I knew what had been nagging me. I recognized the problem: This was a battle I’d had, myself! As I thought of my friend’s talk, I realized that he’d grown up in a much different environment than I had. Those words had been commonplace around his home, and to him, they appeared to be normal.
Then, I had another thought—of the rough fishermen whom Jesus called to be His disciples.
Did they use coarse language? At least one of them did—the one who cursed and swore as he denied knowing Jesus three times (Matthew 26:74). As a rough fisherman, I’m sure profanity was second nature to Peter, but Jesus loved him dearly and forgave him, calling him three times to “Feed My lambs,” “Tend My sheep,” and “Feed My sheep.” (John 21:15–17).
As I grow spiritually, the Holy Spirit continuously points out my character defects, and brings back to my memory what my life used to be like. Today, I do not pick up stones (John 8:7), since God knows I have no right to cast a single one. Yes, words matter. But I am also reminded of Jesus’ great love for us because He takes us where we are. What wonderful comfort I find in the words, “God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).
While my nature is to focus on how someone’s coarse language detracts from their message, I choose to focus, instead, on what’s going on with me. When I am disturbed, it’s because I find some person, place, thing, or situation—some fact of my life—is unacceptable to me. Instead of looking at other people’s behavior, I really need to look at what is wrong with me. Invariably, it’s because I can’t see. There’s a great big log in my eye (Matthew 7:3–5)!
Did I expect my friend to use other words to describe his fear, his anger at God, and his despair because of his drinking? Maybe.
Did I expect him to clean up his language just because he was in “mixed company?” Maybe.
He’d been sober for over a decade! Wouldn’t that be long enough to change his language? Maybe.
But I am not God. And besides, everyone I know is fighting a battle I know nothing about.
Another verse floods my mind: “But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing.” (James 1:4)
Hmm. Is the problem inside of me? Is this really about the fact that my patience needs more work? Maybe.
As I sat there, stunned, I thought about the lesson I’d just learned: If Jesus treats him with patience, tolerance, and unconditional love, then I should, too.
In a 1927 poem written by Max Ehrmann called, “The Desiderata” or “Things Desired,” he gives the following advice to his son: “Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.” Oh the things I learn when I can be still and just listen—speaking only as the Holy Spirit impresses me to!
When I was first introduced to recovery, they told me that God gave me two ears and one mouth, so I might want to listen twice as much as I spoke. Then they added, “Learn to listen, and then listen to learn.”
Okay. I’m listening, Lord. But please let me listen with my heart! I want to encourage my brother who still struggles to find the most impactful words to describe the beautiful things you are doing in his life.
