You've heard it said hundreds of times, if not more. Your words are powerful. And they are. Whether we say something to our children or a spouse or friend, our words carry a punch.

Everything we say carries impact. It seems these days, fewer and fewer people remember what it's like to cherish sweet words. Folks seem too busy hurling insults and opinions to offer tender thoughts, either written or spoken.

Here's an example: I was flipping through videos on Facebook when I came across a dog video. The dog was a lean, trim treeing hound, and when he reached over to retrieve a toy that floated in a baby pool, his ribs showed ever so slightly. The dog was obviously healthy. His coat glistened in the sun. He was energetic and playful, and a bowl of food sat on a pad next to a water bowl. The pooch was well cared for and, again, obviously happy. As the comments began to roll past, I noticed one lady threatening to contact PETA about animal abuse. She thought that the owners were starving the dog because the dog's ribs showed a tiny bit when he twisted to one side (Note: When the dog twisted his skin pulled tight).

Her comment went on and on, slamming the owners and demanding they remove the video. It wasn't enough that she threatened to turn the owners in to the authorities, but she continued to hurl wild acquisitions and insults that were damning and hurtful. By the time her rant was complete, she was threatening to call child services because if the dog was starved, the kids probably were as well. My point is there was no regard for the impact of her words.

I'm not one for conflict. In fact, I avoid it when possible. I prefer to turn the other cheek and walk away. Oh, this doesn't mean I'm a coward. I stand my ground when necessary, but I choose my battles. I desire to be more diplomatic—that's my personality, a peacemaker. So, I learned years ago just to let things roll off my back. I could sulk in the privacy of my room at home, then be over it. Offer forgiveness and move ahead.

Still, there are times when even a peacemaker's best efforts are challenged.

My publisher recently released my fifth Appalachian novel. I'm blessed that God has heard my prayers to be a writer and has blessed me with the opportunity. When I prayed to be a writer, I told God the glory would be His. I just wanted to be a writer for Him. God said yes. So, when this novel was released a few weeks ago, I prayed that He would use it. Reviews began to roll in, and I received 4.9 stars on Amazon. Readers enjoyed the book and were giving it good reviews.

Here is where I offer a statement of defense. I rarely read reviews. There's no point for an author to read them. Most of the time, the reviews are good, but getting that ONE can be devasting. There were a couple of hiccups in the book's release and the Kindle version with the publisher. Because of these hiccups, the book was falling through the cracks despite the amount of marketing I was doing. I decided to read a few reviews to pull some lines from them and make a few marketing memes.

I suddenly remembered why I don't read reviews. You see, I understand Appalachian historical isn't everyone's cup of tea, and I also understand that there are writers out there who can write circles around me. I'm not naive enough to think I have a perfect product, so I can take a comment about my writing or even about the story and learn from them. That's when I saw I had a 2-star review. Okay, I'm curious now. What did the reader dislike about my book? Apparently nothing since the first half of the review was glowing. Great characters drew me in and kept me there, with lots of twists. Loved the story.

AND THEN, it all went south. This review accused me of writing about paganism, humanism, mixed religions, and new-age teaching. And to finish it off, "This wasn't a Christian book." It should have listed what it contained in the description, and they would have "passed on reading."

This reader not only trashed my novel at the end of the review, but the reader attacked my faith. My heart ached, not that this person didn't like the book, but that they attacked my faith and called me New Age and an antichrist. Oh, my word. An antichrist. It was like someone gut-punched me. I may be a lot of things that I cannot defend, but my faith is not something anyone can attack.

Words. Are. Powerful. And in a world where fewer and fewer people don't understand kindness, goodness, love, and gentleness, those words wield a double-edged sword. Sadly, responding to that post was impossible because the writer had turned off comments, but worse, I couldn't defend my faith. Responding would have only antagonized the writer and called out the ignorance that this person wholly owned. Not only that, but my words would then be equally as damming.

Sometimes, we say nothing, and that speaks stronger than arguing. I shared that review with some of my colleagues, who agreed. Say nothing. Not worth the effort. And though I agreed there was something innately inappropriate about silence.

How would God view me if I didn't defend my faith? Would He think I was a coward, or worse, a lukewarm Christian? Would my request to be a writer and allow Him the glory be like a lit match in the wind? My first mistake was trying to assume what God would think. My second mistake was allowing this review to get under my skin. I'll admit, it was a little bit about pride. I'm human and imperfect — the words hurt. They not only hurt my pride, but they hurt the desire I had to present my best to the Father.

I went to bed that night feeling worthless and broken. That reviewer took all I believed and crushed it. As I sat pondering the harshness of the review, I was sure God spoke to my heart. He asked me—Do you believe that person over me? I have redeemed you and spoken for you. I have engraved you in My palm. Whom do you choose to believe?

I smiled as I was reminded of where my faith really lies. I don't have to defend my faith to the Father. He knows me inside out. He accepted me. Loves me. Teaches me.

It only took a nudge to remember whose words truly meant something.

Before you begin to spew the power of words, stop and think. Ask yourself how you would feel if the words you were about to speak were spoken to you.

Photo 1 Image by Gordon Taylor from Pixabay.com / Photo 2 –Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabaycom / Photo 3 – Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

I know. I know. I should be thrilled. It’s Mother’s Day again. And I am, to a certain extent. Oh, sure, my boys eventually get around to calling me. I raised them right. On Mother’s Day, you celebrate your mother. The woman who gave birth to you, or, in the case of two of our sons, the woman who helped raise you. But ya know, they’re boys. They don’t rush. GASP! You say. Naw, not really. I’ve never been big on Hallmark holidays or movies, for that fact.

But this is my conclusion. My lack of enthusiasm for the Hallmark holidays goes back—way back. My family lived on the other side of the tracks. Oh, before you get out your little baby violin and start to squeak it, hear me out. My parents provided well for me. Whatever I wanted to attempt a hand at, my mother found a way to help me experience it. My mom was the quintessential mom. She was a super Girl Scout leader, leading our troop to be one of the top two in the nation for twelve years. Kids came to our house because of my mother. She loved them all. Mom loved/s me. But my dad was a laborer. His pay was weak, and his savings were slim.

Here's the thing. I never knew that. Not until I was a teenager. When holidays rolled around, outside of Christmas, there was no big hoopla. I might wake up to a chocolate bunny on Easter and a few colored eggs, but I only remember one fancy, schmancy basket, and I remember it because Mom had a picture. That’s how little I was. I had beautiful clothes. My mother made every stitch of them. I didn’t have a closet full of shoes. I had a pair of patten leather Mary Janes, and a pair of tennies. At one point, I had a pair of saddle oxfords, not for cheerleading, but rather to help me stop walking on the inside of my feet. I experienced so much because my mother was such a creative Girl Scout leader. Our troop earned the money to do amazing things. And, when I wanted to learn to roller skate, I used the skates at the rink for several years before I got a pair of shoe skates for Christmas. I still have those skates, by the way.

My point is I never knew my parents didn’t have a lot of money to spare because they were creative, and they raised me to be grateful for the little things. I learned a lot about how my Father in Heaven provides NEEDS, not wants. I always had everything I needed, and my folks made a big deal about those provisions. Every one was a celebration. Homemade birthday cakes that were cut into shapes of animals or trains, and party hats that were saved from year to year were wonderful memories. Sweet clothes and the perfect amount of toys. I learned to use my imagination. IMAGINE that! I didn’t “draw an allowance.” If I needed money, I had to ask, and if it was there, I could have it. If not…well. It wasn’t there. But I never felt like I had to do without.

I was in the band, and I remember my mother purchased my clarinet “on time.” It took her two years to pay off $8 a month. I know this because when we were cleaning out her house, we found all her old checkbooks and bank statements (I know, she kept them all). Looking through them, I saw that she paid Joseph’s Music Center $8 a month. When I wanted to learn horseback riding, mom made fun frogs from scrap material and filled them with bird seed. They were so cute, but I had to sell them to earn the $3 a week it cost to take riding lessons. You see, I always had what I needed to learn and experience life.

As an adult, and a divorced adult with two babies at home, there was no extra money. I literally saved my quarters so I could buy the boys Pez for special occasions. Pez used to cost 50 cents. To this day, I still buy my boys Pez. They’re in their 40s, but it’s a fun memory of what love is. I never encouraged my kids to buy cards, flowers, or candy because I simply did not have the money as a divorced mom, for them to do so. Hallmark holidays were downplayed. So, why would I expect my boys, as adults, to lavish me with cards and gifts? A phone call warms my heart. Hearing their voices when they live far away is all I need.

Today is Mother’s Day, and I bought my mom, who will be 98 this year, a card. She lives in a tiny two-room assistive living apartment, so she doesn’t have room for junk, nor does she want it. But her walls are covered in pictures. So, I’ll print a photo and put it in her card. I guarantee that will mean more to her than any bouquet of flowers.

I was raised in gratitude. My parents provided well for me. I never did without, and I had everything I needed. I didn’t miss an overabundance of “stuff.” I had toys, but I had big refrigerator boxes that made great sleds and cool houses. I had a bicycle that took its share of beatings as I raced it, jumped it, and rode it like a wild woman down our very steep gravel driveway. I had metal skates with a key that sorta stayed on my shoes as I skated in our basement. I was raised with creativity and joy. And when I turned 16, my Dad got me a car. I found out when we cleaned out Mom’s house that he emptied the tiny savings account he and Mom had saved for me at $2 a month to buy my car. The receipt for the Grand Torino Sport was there, too. $2598.99 from Anderson Ford and the passbook from Kingsport Savings and Loan. I had to get a job to pay the gas and insurance, but jeepers, Dad got me a car at 16. It seems you need one if you’re gonna work—a means to an end. So, I worked at a restaurant three nights a week and Saturdays in between band practices and trips.

Hallmark moments aren’t much in my life—but those little things, man…the little things are cherished. One of my boys brought home a Mother’s Day bear with a Hershey Bar. One will call sometime today. Two will text. And with every response, my heart will be warmed. My kids love me, and that is all I need. Funny, isn’t it? I still have all I need.

To all my MOM friends, I wish you a joyful Mother’s Day. I pray that you will enjoy your children and if there is strife, try to make it right. Forgiveness is an amazing thing. Be grateful for the opportunity to harbor those babies in that special place, to be chosen to rear them, and to be brave enough to watch them soar. And to my Mom. I love you so much. Without you, I wouldn't be the person I am today. Happy Mother's Day.