I was the friend who said the wrong thing. It was a text on a random weekday, a back and forth conversation about a sensitive subject. My words weren’t ugly; I repeated a familiar Scripture meant to encourage. But, as texts are prone to do, it lacked the nuance and compassion I intended to convey, and I hurt her deeply.
Like a broken thread on the hem of a dress, our friendship began to unravel. I apologized profusely and tried to fix my words with more words. My fumbling delivery was fearful and hesitant as I delicately tried to avoid making things worse. Her hurting heart became distant, and our friendship grew cold and unfamiliar. I exhausted every prayer, every apology, every word, but I couldn’t fix it.
I was heartbroken that I had hurt her and horrified that had I turned into that girl — the one who’s tone deaf to other’s sufferings, the one who’s too selfish to see the other side of an experience, the one that slaps on a Scripture when someone really needs a hand to hold.
I’m sensitive and thoughtful. I use my words to encourage. I shake my head in disapproval when I hear testimonies of thoughtless statements spoken in delicate situations and wonder, How could people be so cruel? I’ve journeyed through infertility, a season of grief notably scarred by the deep sting of well-meaning words.
I thought I knew exactly what to say, until I didn’t.
Read the full article, originally published at (in)courage, HERE.