Award-winning, perennial best-selling novelist Debbie Macomber applies the best of her fiction writing skills to true stories that illustrate the profound impact focusing on a single word such as balance, surrender or believe for a whole year can bring. (christian life).
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Debbie Macomber, with more than 100 million copies of her books sold worldwide, is one of today’s most popular authors. Visit her at DebbieMacomber.com.
One Perfect Word
One
UPON MY WORD
Word (wûrd)
–noun A sound or a combination of sounds, or its representation in writing or printing, that symbolizes and communicates a meaning.1
I am often reminded of the power of words. In my office I have a number of author autographs lining the wall of my stairwell. Mark Twain. Harper Lee. Charles Dickens. Ernest Hemingway. Harriet Beecher Stowe. These writers are my mentors. As a young woman I read and cherished their stories. They remind me of my responsibility as a writer of fiction and most recently in my venture into the world of nonfiction. Indeed there is tremendous power in words.
Pearl S. Buck’s novel The Good Earth actually changed foreign policy between the United States and China. When President Lincoln met Harriet Beecher Stowe, the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, he is reported to have said, “So you’re the little woman who caused the great war.”
The definition I’ve given takes one of the most potent elements of communication—the word—and makes it sound almost innocuous. Yes, words have tremendous power. So much meaning can be packed into a word.
In the book Simple Little Words: What You Say Can Change a Life, Dr. Dennis Hensley tells the story of how one perfect word changed a life.
In my capacity as a professor of English at Taylor University Fort Wayne, I teach a survey course in world literature that students of all majors are assigned to take as part of their liberal-arts requirements.
A few years ago, I met Sean, a junior and wrestling-squad member who was majoring in elementary education. Sean had a shaved bullet head, legs like fire hydrants, a back that could put Atlas to shame, and biceps that looked like the drawing on boxes of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda. This guy was tough.
Sean enjoyed sports, and he excelled at weightlifting and track-and-field events such as discus and hammer throwing. However, he wasn’t overly keen on literature. I knew quickly I’d have my work cut out in making him an admirer of Keats, Shakespeare, Dante, and Melville.
I modified Sean’s reading list for that semester to include high-seas adventures by Jack London, mysteries by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and military works by Rudyard Kipling. We met in my office once each week to discuss the books and short stories, and I constantly praised Sean’s ability to recognize symbolism, foreshadowing, flashbacks, and other elements of literary expressions that I had lectured about in class.
As the semester advanced, so did Sean’s grades. He had started as a C student, then rose to the B level. As I showed the class how the applications of literary analysis could help them better appreciate plays and movies, they all became more and more eager to get to class each day. Sean started sitting in the front row, taking copious notes, and I continued to compliment him on his diligence and studiousness.
Then, one day, as I was grading papers, I was delighted to be able to give a perfect A to Sean on one of his quizzes over a new short story I’d had the students read for that week. At the end of the quiz I wrote, “This is superb work, son. I congratulate you. You’ve been working hard, and this is the payoff. Well done!”
I passed the papers back, and I watched as Sean’s face lit up in a grin when he saw the huge red A atop his quiz. However, when he turned the page over and read my personal note to him, his countenance changed entirely. He lowered his face, avoided eye contact with me the entire rest of the class, and left just as soon as the bell rang. I was thoroughly confused by such behavior until two days later.
During office hours, I glanced up to Sean’s hulking frame taking up my entire doorway. “Can I come in for a moment, Dr. Hensley?” he asked me. I motioned him toward a chair, and he closed the door behind him. I could see that he had his quiz in his hand.
“Sir,” he began, but then stopped. He lowered his head, and suddenly I realized that this giant of a man was actually weeping. I was stunned. I gave him a moment to collect himself. “Sir, you don’t know my background.”
I said nothing as Sean fished a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his eyes.
“My dad left my mom and me when I was only seven,” Sean said in a low voice. “I somehow felt it was my fault that he left. I got it into my head that if I could just be a better son, my dad would come back and live with us again. We’d all be happy then.”
He paused, then added, “So, I played every sport at my schools and all the summer sports I could sign up for. I thought that if I could just hit enough home runs or score enough touchdowns or shoot enough baskets, my dad would be proud of me and would come back.”
“Did it work?” I asked gently.
Sean shook his head. “My dad only showed up at three of my games during ten years that I was involved in sports. It was no big deal to him. I tried my best to impress him, but I always felt that I’d failed. I haven’t heard from my dad for the past two years, and I probably never will. I thought I had gotten past caring, until . . .”
I leaned forward a little.
“Until what, Sean?”
“Until I got my quiz back from you day before yesterday,” he said, looking directly at me. “You praised me . . . and you called me son. You might have meant it just as a passing catchphrase from an older man to a younger fellow, but it hit me like a freight train. I realized at that moment, that all my life I’ve wanted to have a man whom I looked up to, to tell me he was proud of me and to call me son. You have no idea what this note on this paper means to me. I plan to keep this for the rest of my life.”
Sean wiped another sudden rush of tears from his eyes.
“I came here to tell you something, Dr. Hensley. I want you to know that I’m going to conduct my life from here on out—in everything I do—so that you will always be proud enough to call me son. I won’t ever let you down. I promise you that. You’ve given me something that I’ve been yearning for my entire life, and I want to protect it.”
He rose, and so did I. I shook his hand and gave him a manly hug, concluding with a slap on the shoulder. “You’re a fine man, Sean,” I assured him. “I have no doubt you’ll make me proud of you in whatever you do in life.”
A year later, Sean graduated with his degree in elementary education. He passed the licensing examination for Indiana and took a job in one of the worst elementary schools in inner-city Indianapolis. Most of the students there were from single-parent families, and all were desperately poor. Sean became a surrogate father to many of them. He would take his old van into the projects and ghettos and pick up dozens of children and take them to sporting events, Saturday movies, or vacation Bible school. He called the boys “son” and the girls “daughter,” and they loved it.
In calling Sean “son,” I not only changed his life, I gave him a focus on the ministry he wanted for his lifetime calling. He’s now changing the lives of hundreds of other fatherless children.
Yes, indeed, one word of encouragement can change the world.*
BREAKING IT DOWN
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