Some people make cutting remarks,

But the words of the wise bring healing.

Proverbs 12v18 NLT

…an encouraging word cheers a person up.

Proverbs 12 v25 NLT

I followed a car in bumper-to-bumper traffic, inching forward while lanes merged on a too-busy afternoon. A sticker on the back seemed to echo words to me over and over as I pondered how to respond to someone whose unkind words had cut deep: Believe in nice!

At first it seemed like one of those ridiculous slogans that sound sweet but say nothing. Believe in nice?! Like believing in Santa Clause or the Tooth Fairy or a Fairy God-mother whose magic wand works miracles.

I couldn’t get those words out of my mind. Over and over, to the rhythm of the slow going road, like a mantra I heard them:

Believe in nice. Believe in nice. Believe in nice.

My mind wandered from my worry about how to respond to this someone who seemed so antagonistic, to these believe-in-nice words that made no sense.

Lord, is this You?

Believe, Di, believe in the power of nice.

My breath caught. I know what the word believe means. I know that in God’s Word, to believe in God means to entrust oneself to God.

As in completely, entirely.

As in being willing to so entrust myself to Him that I do the hard thing, the impossible thing, the thing I don’t want to do but must if I’m to please Him and stay close to Him. He was telling me…

To believe that His power is in the nice.

And then a verse we’d memorized over and over again as a family joined the believe-in-nice mantra:

Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths,

but only what is helpful for building people up

according to their needs,

that it may benefit those who listen.

Ephesians 4:29 NIV

Okay, Lord. I believe, I entrust myself to You. Instead of responding with all the venom that keeps coming to my still-to-be-completely, really redeemed mind, I will be nice.

I believe in the power You bring when I choose nice.

I looked to my left, still stuck in traffic, I stare into a mini-van driven by a tired looking mama. Kids in the back, obviously harassing each other. Arms flailing, mouths spewing, faces skewed into ugliness by the hurt and anger and not-niceness of their siblings— and their momentarily not-nice selves.

Believe in nice.

The look on that mama’s face about broke my heart. She didn’t know what to do with her herd of rampaging buffalo in the back. So she did what she’d been taught: nothing. Just let them work it out themselves. Don’t interfere.

When that didn’t work (okay, I was staring, but what else is there to do during a stalled rush hour?) Mama whipped around, opened her mouth wide and… saw me staring.

I smiled sympathetically. She smiled back. A moment of knowing.

I wanted to get out of my car and climb into hers and tell her what I know now, now that my kids are grown and my car is empty of arguers:

I wanted to tell her… that there is power in being nice.

That encouraging words give courage to kids whose feelings are hurt and tempers are short. That her own niceness to both the wounded and the wound-er can bring hope and healing.

I wanted to tell her it’s her job to enforce niceness.

That if she doesn’t the meanest one will win. The quiet child will sink, letting the words wreak havoc. The not-nice one will keep being not-nice because anger is an incredibly effective way to control people.

I wanted to tell her to soften her words.

To respond to the car full of chaos with soothing gentleness. That if she doesn’t, she’ll regret it at the end of the day, feeling as ugly as she sounds. 

I wanted to tell her about the tremendous power of nice.

That wise words are like medicine, that gentleness turns away anger. That she has the power, for just a few years, to teach her children that truth and nice go hand-in-hand.

I wanted to tell her that entrusting yourself to God means choosing to be nice no matter what.

Even in traffic. Even on hard, hot days with not-nice kids spewing not-niceness on each other.

I wanted to tell that mama that He knows how hard it is to be nice.

That He managed, even on the Cross, with blood running down in sticky rivulets, with a crowd of jeering mockers, with their spittle on his face— even then to be kind, forgiving…

To believe in nice.

The traffic cleared. We passed a wreck on the side of the road. Glass shattered, the bumper crunched, a car seat in the back. People had been hurt.

And I prayed…

… for the child in the wrecked car who may have been hurt.

… for the children in that angry mini-van who were hurting each other—and themselves.

… for the mamas in both cars, that they would believe in the power of God to be nice, no matter what.

… for myself to believe in the power God gives to be nice when all I feel is mean.

From a heart still struggling to believe in the power of nice,

Diane

P.S. And you?

Can you tell us how you teach your children the power of nice?

Can you tell us what has helped you to believe in the power of nice?

Or who?

It’s Not Your Fault

“the sound of a gentle whisper…”

I Kings 19:12

This morning I woke up to worry— again.

As per my usual pattern, all my worry was about me: what I need to do, what I should have done, how inadequate and undone I am. Should have’s, ought to’s…

But on this morning, as I padded out to my place of refuge with my pot of tea, my plain white china cup, my fluffy blanket, I heard something strange and…beautiful in the middle of my self-shaming tirade. Words so soft, like a gentle whisper.

Shhh… hush Di! You are Mine and I love you. Shhh! 

All those discouragements, the conflict and criticisms— those are on Me. 

My breath caught, from You, Lord? 

From Me.

In that one phrase all my angst swooshed out and relief lifted a load from my tense shoulders I hadn’t known I carried. I felt lifted, like those silken hot air balloons, launched into the quiet sky, far above the fray.

From Him. The One who loves me just for me, all the way through— always. My hard days and sleepless nights weren’t simply because I am inadequate. Nor were they because someone else is. The truth is, He used those disruptions to do something wild and wonderful in me, for me.

And, dear ones who read my words, He does the same for you. I think He wants me to tell you that:

It’s not your fault.

That people will blame you, that your enemy stands ready with those fiery darts to afflict you, that shame and heaviness will weigh you down and keep you from soaring, but…

It’s not your fault.

And we’re laughing now, my Father and me, chuckling together in shared joy. Because He knows these words are for me too, for me and every other woman who wallows in blame.

He loves you! He isn’t blaming you— that’s not Him.

And get this: He even…likes you.

I sense His arm around me as I sit curled up in my cushy chair in the corner of my cabin in the woods. We watch— together— as branches bounce in a haphazard dance as one of His creatures— a squirrel? a chipmunk? It’s moving too fast to see— leaps from limb to limb setting the forest asway.

It’s not your fault.

I’m grinning big, seeing His hand in the unexpected, knowing now that He knew what was ahead. He knew and let it be. Not because He’s mean or distant or giving me my just dues, but because He knows I need Him. That only tucked in tight to Him can I do what He needs me to do. And that, more than any other way, it is those hard days, those difficult weeks, those just lousy moments— that cause me to scurry in close, to abide.

I don’t know why or if your weeks are hard. Maybe your kids are squabbling their way through these hot summer days. Maybe you’re the one squabbling. Maybe you’ve stubbed your toe one too many times and the soreness is causing you to limp. I don’t know.

I do know that He wants me to say it again and again:

It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.  Even when it is.

I think He wants to remind you— and me!— that He has taken our burden and placed it on His back. That He’s got your back. That He loves you and He likes you and that’s really, honestly, the only thing that matters.

Soaring now, way up high in the summer sky where everything looks… beautiful.

From my heart,

Diane

P.S. Do you blame yourself for every troubled day? Feel as if you must work harder, do more, be better, in order to earn God’s favor?  Are these words: It’s not your fault! for you?