I was fourteen when I heard words that stayed with me for a lifetime.
We were on our way to visit my sister abroad, sitting in the Frankfurt airport lounge during a layover. I remember the glow of the computer screen in front of me, the quiet hum of travellers shuffling past, and my parents sitting not too far away.
A young man walked up, waiting for his turn at the computer. He leaned closer and said, “Wow, you have the eyes of an angel.” Just like that. Nothing rehearsed, nothing dramatic. He smiled, I blushed, and a moment later, he was gone.
I don’t know his name. I don’t even remember his face clearly. But I remember those words. Two decades later, they still sit in my heart like a soft, glowing pebble. At fourteen, when I was awkward and unsure of myself, those words gave me something to hold onto.
But not all words that last are kind.
There are others I remember, too, words spoken in frustration: “You always doubt. You always cry.” They pierced differently. They made me shrink, made me second-guess my feelings, made me believe that maybe I was too much. It’s strange how one sentence, spoken in a passing moment, can become a voice that lives in your head for years.
Scripture reminds us: “The tongue has the power of life and death” (Proverbs 18:21). And I have felt both sides of that truth—the sweetness of kind words that gave me confidence, and the sting of careless ones that sowed doubt.
Maybe that’s why, as a mother now, I listen so carefully to what leaves my mouth.
The other day, my son was testing boundaries in that mischievous way children do. I almost said, “You always disobey.” The words were right there, ready to spill out. But I stopped. Because I know the weight of always. I know how it can trap a person in a story that isn’t fair.
Instead, I took a breath and said, “Are you choosing to disobey? Think again, my boy.” He froze, his little eyes darting up at me, and I could see him working it out in his mind. Same correction, but the story was different. One version stamped a label on him. The other gave him space to rise higher.
I don’t get it right every time. My words still slip, sometimes sharper than I mean them. But I know this: words have roots. They go down deep. They grow into the stories people carry about themselves.
Jesus said, “For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of” (Luke 6:45). If my heart is weighed down with impatience or frustration, that’s what spills out. But if it’s full of grace, then grace has a chance to spill out instead.
Looking back, I don’t remember every detail of my teenage years. I don’t remember every fight I’ve had or every gift I’ve been given. But I do remember the words—the ones that healed, the ones that hurt, the ones that still echo when I least expect them.
Words are so light, just breath and sound. And yet they’re heavy enough to build a life or break a heart. They can be splinters, or they can be stitches.
So I pray that the words I speak will be the kind that stay for the right reasons. That twenty years from now, the people I love will still be carrying something I once said—not as a scar, but as a blessing.
“Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.”—Colossians 4:6
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
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Well said, succinct and powerful. Thank you.
Thank you,@ Tim! You're very encouraging.