Words Count

from April 2020

Springtime in the Heart

by Rhonda Lane

My first encounter with the Word software program was when I began to write for this great little magazine you are now holding. Being a Baby Boomer who literally learned to type on a manual typewriter, the program held all types of surprises, including different fonts, formatting, and best of all, “word counts.” The software counts the number of words in any given article instead of my having to resort to using all my fingers and toes.

“Word counts” was an eye-opening discovery, but if you twist that phrase a bit into “words count,” you get a life-changing revelation. Shortly after my parents both died in rapid succession, I had a first encounter with a man whom my father had mentored for more than 40 years. I cannot remember any condolences being offered, but I do remember his seemingly well-rehearsed verbal list of faults he perceived in both my parents, including some question of intelligence. This verbal recitation was no accident, as he preceded it with some sort of warning, which I cannot exactly remember, implying that I would not like what he was about to say as he unburdened himself of his perceptions. He delivered it with relish and a grin of satisfaction on his face that could make one wish to never smile again. While not suicidal, I had lost any ambition to live at that point, and his words could have sent someone of lesser faith over the edge. The cloud of these words has crossed my skies on many, many lonely days since.

In stark contrast was another encounter I experienced on the morning that my father was taken to the hospital. I called my best friend, Susan Edwards, and quickly told her what had happened. She immediately asked me if I wanted her to come to the hospital. She arrived with breakfast for me in hand, fearing that I had had none. Her first words were to ask about his condition. I replied, “He’s gone.”

“That sweet man?!” she asked as we fell into an embrace, screaming aloud our emotions in the middle of the emergency room. When the embrace was finally broken, she looked me right in the eye and said, “He was a smart man, and that’s why you’re smart.” Many would argue with that assessment of my own intelligence, but those words were planted deep in my heart to bloom on my rainy days of the soul.

We were joined by her aunt, Vivian Turner, who is another dear friend. They sat with me, content with words or with silence as we sat with my father who was already present with the Lord.

While we do not literally have to count the words we speak to our fellow man, we should always measure them because their depth and breadth can span a lifetime, whether for the good or the bad. “A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver” (Proverbs 25:11).