Language of love
A few years ago, I read a book called The Five Love Languages. The book discusses the five different ways in which people experience and express love. (quality time, touch, words of affirmation, acts of service, gifts)
Words. They are awake and alive with meaning. They have been constructed to lift my spirits and they have been formed to crush my soul. I love them. I hate them. I feel them over and over again. I memorize them. I use them to entertain rich, delicious thoughts. I own a mind that is always analyzing what they mean. I hold the ones I want to treasure and I carry the ones I'd like to discard, but find I cannot loosen their stubborn fix. I feel loved by words that are spoken in genuine truth, and I am destroyed by words ejected in carelessness. I respect their power. Perhaps that is why I write.
Looking back at my child self, I found the pattern of my love. It was my mother who nurtured my writing. I doubt that she knew she was speaking my love language, but by doing so she gave me an amazing gift. Her affirming words equipped me with a sense of worthiness. I began to write short stories and poems in elementary school, and she was delighted to read them. As a teacher, she would share them with her students as examples of good writing. She fueled that love by buying me a journal and a rhyming book that I hold onto even now. I was perceptive to her affirmations that held no sense of self gain. It was her investment early on in my life that has encouraged me to find and use my own words today.
I was teasing my mom a few weeks ago saying that she was my biggest and only fan. She, of course, rejected that idea, but I know that she loves me. She told me so
Just this week I revisited the subject as I was listening to a broadcast on Focus on the Family with the author, Gary Chapman, as guest speaker. He was discussing how to love your children by speaking their love language. Immediately, my thoughts went to my four little ones as I tried to imagine what ways would make them feel best loved. My mind soon wandered to my own childhood.
Words. They are awake and alive with meaning. They have been constructed to lift my spirits and they have been formed to crush my soul. I love them. I hate them. I feel them over and over again. I memorize them. I use them to entertain rich, delicious thoughts. I own a mind that is always analyzing what they mean. I hold the ones I want to treasure and I carry the ones I'd like to discard, but find I cannot loosen their stubborn fix. I feel loved by words that are spoken in genuine truth, and I am destroyed by words ejected in carelessness. I respect their power. Perhaps that is why I write.
Looking back at my child self, I found the pattern of my love. It was my mother who nurtured my writing. I doubt that she knew she was speaking my love language, but by doing so she gave me an amazing gift. Her affirming words equipped me with a sense of worthiness. I began to write short stories and poems in elementary school, and she was delighted to read them. As a teacher, she would share them with her students as examples of good writing. She fueled that love by buying me a journal and a rhyming book that I hold onto even now. I was perceptive to her affirmations that held no sense of self gain. It was her investment early on in my life that has encouraged me to find and use my own words today.
I was teasing my mom a few weeks ago saying that she was my biggest and only fan. She, of course, rejected that idea, but I know that she loves me. She told me so
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