My second love language is words of affirmation.
Words are a part of who I am. I have genuinely come to love silence, but I need
Words
Words
Words
I'm like a greedy little dragon that hoards words like gold.
But as I grew up through my teen years, I recognized a problem:
This gold has the power to blow my head to the size of a hot air balloon.
Okay. I know mixing metaphors is a terrible thing to do, but--we can deal with it.
As a daughter of Christ, then, what am I supposed to do with this gold? For a long time, I convinced myself that it was fools gold.
"Oh, you liked my violin playing? Well, I'm not really very good."
"Oh, you liked the way I said that? Well, I'm not very good with words."
"You like that story or drawing? Well, that's nothing. I'm nothing."
But when I was thirteen, my second cousin Andrew told us in Sunday school that we shouldn't take a compliment and tell the person that "it was nothing." That's like saying their opinion doesn't matter. Andrew died a few months later, but I never forgot that.
And I took that to heart somehow. Rather than saying, "That was nothing" when someone complimented me, I learned instead to just say, "Thank you."
But on the inside, I still told myself, "That was nothing." I was so afraid of puffing up that hot air balloon that I convinced myself that my talents were nothing but fools gold and that the words that pointed them out to me were equally empty. Occasionally I told myself that it was God's doing, but my words were weak and still didn't convince me that my talents actually existed.
However, such humility is false.
Today, I stand before you to acknowledge that I am talented. I don't know how I realized this exactly, but it has crept upon me like the slow splash of orange in an autumn maple.
But that realization has brought a joyful responsibility.
Because I know that I can take little more credit for my talent than I can for the color of my eyes, I now look at my talent as a kind of paint with a purpose: to glorify the Talent Giver. Yes, my pride still exists, but I am bent upon this aching purpose: to point upward. Point upward. Like Agnes standing on the stair in David Copperfield, I want to point upward. There are much greater things to look at than myself. There's a much greater Person.
Of course, there are many ways to point upwards: service, art, music, stories, and athletic feats are just a few. One gift that God has given me to point is words.
Taking compliments is still a tricky business though, and as a daughter of Christ who is bent on using her talents with one purpose, I'd like to express what kind of compliments are the most meaningful to me.
Whether I am testifying or playing my violin, here are some compliments I'm never sure what to do with:
"Good job playing."
"If I didn't know that your father was a pastor, I'd say that you must come from a family of ministers! You sure have a way with words."
"You really know how to speak."
Well. Thank you? I mean really. I know you mean well, so I will accept your compliment gratefully because I see the good heart behind it. However . . . what if I were an artist trying to paint a picture of your sweetheart? Would you say this:
"Good job painting."
"Even if I didn't know your family were artists, I'd say that that you were an artist too! You know how to use paint."
"You really know how to slap some paint on a canvas with that brush of yours."
Well, yes; yes I do. Buuuut . . . aren't we missing something here? I didn't go to all the problem of painting your sweetheart just so you can tell me that I know how to use a paintbrush. What I really wanted was to portray a picture--specifically a picture of someone who should mean something to you. Do you see her face? Is the likeness close enough? Does it make you feel warm or happy when you look at it? Do you like it?
Don't tell me I know how to slap on paint! If you can tell who I'm painting and it stirs something in you, that will tell me that I know how to slap on paint. If you ignore the picture and only tell me about the nice paint strokes, all I can think is that maybe I did something wrong.
And that's how it is when I play or when I speak. In my own way, I'm trying to paint a picture of Jesus. When I play, I don't want people to tell me that I'm talented; I want them to tell me that my playing helped them to worship Jesus. When I speak, I don't want people to tell me that I have a way with words; I want them to tell me that my words encouraged them. Because if I am to point upward, then the spotlight is supposed to be on Someone else.
Who ever heard of someone complimenting a spotlight pointer, unless to say that they illuminated their subject perfectly?
Of course, I know that in this human frame I still manage to get in the way when I "paint" pictures of my Savior. I don't expect everyone to fall on their knees and sing "Hallelujah" whenever they hear me. I will be content with a "you helped me," "I enjoyed that," or a comment about the subject matter: "It truly is amazing how God can expand our heart." I would be very much surprised if everyone came up to me and told me that I really helped them to worship God.
But.
If one person did do that, their words would mean more to me than a hundred other compliments about how brilliant or lovely I sounded.
One of my favorite compliments came after playing my violin for church when I was about seventeen . I was playing a glorious rendition of "Holy, Holy, Holy" and I wanted so badly for it to express all of the worship that welled in my heart.
However, I messed up badly. I was nervous, and my hand shook. The bow skipped across the string like a rock skipping over turbid water. I know for a fact that I played horribly--no false modesty here.
But immediately afterward, a man came up to me and thanked me for it.
"It was the way that you played it."
I read the warmth in his eyes and knew that he wasn't just being kind. My own heart worshiped God for speaking through me as I had wanted. Sometimes the pieces most riddled with mistakes are the ones that can sing God's glory the loudest.
And maybe that's why I appreciate those kinds of compliments. If someone says, "Nice playing," I can bend that praise into silent worship, but I'm not certain if both the complimenter and I are doing the same thing. But if someone says, "You helped make earthly things seem dim," then it's easier and more joyous to bend that worship upward because I know that the complimenter is already worshiping the One I was trying to illuminate.
Yes, my love language is still words of affirmation. I sometimes pretend the gold means nothing to me, but I still crave it. However, as my identity becomes more intertwined with the One who created me, the compliments that bring Him into sharper focus are the most meaningful to me.
My purpose, after all, is never to show how I can use a paintbrush. It's to paint a picture.
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