Saying Too Much 22 comments

By Sara Zarr

A few years ago, my Lent discipline was to not speak unless I truly had something to say, to use as few words as possible in all situations, to somehow whittle the many words I use in my daily life down to only the necessary ones.

Because, I talk too much. In person and in text. I use too many words to make my point; I say things every possible way and then I say them again.

And in case you didn't get that, let me reiterate: my words, they are not few.

I could say that I'm from a family of talkers. Also, I could explain it by the fact that I have a vocation in words, I make a living by them.

I could also point out that as readers and lovers of books, my husband and I have a house full of words. Between the two of us, at any given time we may have twenty-five books checked out of the library in addition to our personal collection. My journal is always nearby to capture words that might help me understand myself and my life. The emails and tweets and chats fly fast and furious nearly every day from my fingertips out into the world.

All of these things are true. But that year it occurred to me that this habit of overtalking, overwriting, oversaying, shows a lack of faith—also known as fear.

I fear being misunderstood or un-understood, and then judged by those who misread me. If someone appears to be disagreeing with me, I try to make my point a dozen other ways because I fear being wrong, or being thought to be wrong.

More acutely, in my friendships, as in so many other areas of my life, I am a perfectionist, and a perfect friend always says the right things. So if it doesn't sound right the first time, I will try it five more ways. This perfectionism drags its weight into the deepest places—in the justifying and explaining of who I am and what I feel and think and why I do the things I do, to others and, mostly, in my own head, the words never stop.

It’s an identity thing. Understand me. Know me. Approve of me.

Which comes back to lack of faith. That God's approval of me, demonstrated by His love, is nice and all, but not nearly enough. That if I talk about or write about my issues with sufficient thought and skill, I will be able to understand them, and therefore control them, and will not need to come to the moment of surrender. I won't have to let go and trust that God is not only able to do something about them, but—harder to believe—willing.

Clearly, there is a place for words. They can be powerful and helpful and life-giving. If I didn't believe that, I would not be writing this post, or writing anything at all. But I know that I'm always in danger of making them my god and my sole comfort, setting my compass to them, believing that my ability to use them well proves that I matter, and, most of all, that I am in control.

With the right words I don't need God Himself, only the perfectly-crafted idea of Him.

Henri Nouwen writes that the great challenge we have is living our wounds instead of thinking through them. It's better, he says, “to feel your wounds deeply than to understand them, better to let them enter into your silence than to talk about them.”

I believe that is probably often true, but it scares me. Entering into my silence and letting pain come along with me is a little bit terrifying for someone who finds such comfort in the words she has been stockpiling her whole life.

As I write this, it's Good Friday. The point in the Passion that has always moved me most deeply is when Jesus tells his disciples at Gethsemane:

"My soul is crushed with grief to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.”

Not: “Time for a pep talk.” Not: “Let's quote some Psalms.” Not: “Strategize with me.”

Keep watch. Be present.

If the Word made flesh didn't want to talk it out, why do I think if only I find the perfect words to say to myself and others in our own soul-crushing moments, everything will be okay?

The emotional twice-made request for presence by the Son of the omnipresent God speaks to the power of wordless human companionship.

Of course, presence sometimes comes through words, especially when we're separated from each other by time and space. But I would like to be conscious of bringing the spirit of “keep watch” to my words, and learn to ask for presence, and offer it.

Instead of trying to control, with words, my suffering and the suffering of others, or my fears about my identity and the impression I make on the world, I would like to let those things enter into silence and surrender.