As we watched sitting in flannels on the couch under blankets, our favorite pair received a call for a man slashed with a machete. The paramedics were flabbergasted as were we. Upon arriving, the man revealed both arms were cut to the bone, bleeding, fleshy, traumatic. He show how he'd raised his arms in an X over his face to protect himself and the knife had slashed him.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry for a man I don't know who'd been slashed by a stranger with a machete in the middle of the night.
Under starry skies, he was hurt, severely, intentionally, with an oversized blade.
Tears were burning my eyes, a lump forming uncomfortably in my throat. I wanted to cry. Maybe Lent just has me sensitive, this lack of distraction breeding an acute and intense awareness of myself and the mess of this world. Maybe it's a mix of sadness for that man and for me. Maybe it's realizing, I have a machete of my own.
My tongue is sharp, so very sharp, easily slicing and shredding without my realization. I know the danger of the tongue and its fruit. I know the way one can eat a poisonous apple and fall into a stupor while those little arsenic-filled seeds poison the soul.
I believe those gifted with a love for words, often struggle with them most.
My words, a gift I believe is truly and graciously bestowed upon me by Him, are my best and my worst. They're my tools to build up and my weapons in combat. They're my strength and my undoing. They're a machete for clearing the densest of emotional jungles, easily turned to vicious weapon on the streets of life.
The tongue is sharp, two-sided, easily slashing and slaying those around us. Our strength being our weakness, our words being our weapon, it seems more often, words stomp around sarcastically, caustically, in cutting motions than dancing in dainty, blessed encouragements.
I believe those gifted with a love for words, often struggle with them most. May we set down our selfish motives and only retrieve intentions well-meant.