The Weight of Words

There are moments in my work when I’ll sit over something most people wouldn’t give a second thought to — like when a witness says, “fourteen or fifteen hundred dollar invoice.” On paper, that can look two completely different ways. Written exactly as the words came out, it looks like this: 14 or 1500 dollar invoice.

But what most people assume the witness meant — and what a lot of firms convert it to for readability — looks like this: $1,400 or $1,500 invoice.

See the gap? One is literal to the sound; the other is an assumption that changes the record. I’m all about verbatim. I’m a court reporter, not an interpreter. And this writing itself will prove it’s always a toss-up between what people say and what they actually mean. That’s the space my brain lives in.

That’s the way I’m wired, with a legal mind and a love for the integrity of words. Most assuredly, thirty-plus years in the legal world sharpened it, but I don’t think it made it. Part of my Father’s unique design for me is to hold words to the light. Maybe that’s why I can’t let small things slide. Because one day, what looks small to everyone else may be the very thing He wants me to see — something critical, something with eternal weight — that others passed right by. That’s not an accident. That’s my design. That’s my purpose.

I’ve had to defend my way with words all my life — even in relationships. More than once, I’ve been told that conversations with me can be difficult. Even my son once came to the defense of one of my boyfriends and said, “Mama, sometimes talking to you, people feel the need to look up for the swinging light,” meaning I press until I get to the bottom of things, like an interrogation. And he’s right. I’m thorough. Sometimes too thorough. It can be frustrating for others, and it can honestly be frustrating for me.

I’m gonna borrow a friend’s post from Facebook about Charlie Kirk yesterday as an example of words. It reminded me I’m not the only one who turns over every rock; there are others who see the details that are hidden in plain sight. Maybe we’re wired that way to sound the alarm for folks who can’t see it. Her exact words were, “No, you are not Charlie. Quit coming into agreement to become the next victim.” And boy, did that stir folks up. Some thought she was shutting down support; others realized she was warning about the words themselves. Saying “I agree with Charlie” is one thing. But saying “I am Charlie” is another. That little shift in words pulls you into all of it — the praise and the pitfalls. That’s spiritual warfare 101. Words carry weight. They plant seeds and leave trails, and someone’s always following — and sometimes the trail you lay down paints a target on your back. Intent matters, but so does consequence. Be passionate about Charlie’s stance. Stand with his mission. But be careful: when we say “we are Charlie,” we’re stepping into more than support. We can honor Charlie, his calling, his voice, and the truth he stood for — but the enemy doesn’t care about sentiment. He’s legalistic. He plays dirty. He isn’t described as a lion seeking whom he may devour just for imagery’s sake. It’s literal. And we’d better wake up. Support is good, but we must be mindful of the words we choose so they cannot be twisted against us… fatally.

Years ago, the Holy Spirit pressed something similar on me. It wasn’t wrapped in neat chapter-and-verse, so folks bristled. They wanted proof instead of paying attention. But not everything God teaches comes tied up in a bow. Just because you don’t recognize it doesn’t make it less true. You can choose not to believe in cancer, but that won’t stop it from working in a body. You can choose not to believe in MARTA, the Atlanta bus system, but stand in the street long enough and one will flatten you. Denial doesn’t protect you — and ignorance of the law is not a defense.

And while we’re talking about chapter and verse — show me the book and verse that says anything about air conditioners, cars, or what color the carpet and drapes ought to be in the sanctuary. You won’t find it. Yet down here in South Georgia in August, we sure believe in air conditioning. We’ll fight for it. We’ll thank God for it every Sunday. Because without it, we’re fanning ourselves, sticking to our neighbor, and praying the sermon is fifteen minutes shorter.

But words matter. They carry weight — they leave a trail somebody’s always following, and the seeds you plant with them will grow, for good or for harm. That’s why even an oath doesn’t just say, “Tell the truth.” It says, “Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” Because it’s not just about avoiding lies — it’s about refusing to omit what matters, and refusing to pad it with fluff. Your words can and will be used against you, because words reveal who you are.

That’s what Paul meant when he said, “If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.” (1 Corinthians 13:1). He wasn’t condemning tongues. He was saying that words without love — even spiritual-sounding words — are nothing but noise. Annoying, empty noise... like a smoke alarm with a dying battery at two in the morning.

And Paul also said the thing that hits me square between the ribs: “For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.” (Romans 7:19). That’s integrity, too — to admit we’re sinners, to say out loud that we fall short. That’s me. I love truth, but I haven’t always been truthful myself. Sometimes I soften it, sometimes I leave things out, sometimes I just flat-out choose wrong. But I won’t run from it. I’ll own it. Because accountability matters. And I guess I long to see that in others as well.

Truth isn’t popular anymore. These days it’s treated like something subjective, bendable, up for grabs — although that’s a lie in itself. Truth doesn’t shift with feelings or opinion. Our own Declaration of Independence starts by reminding us: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights …” Even our forefathers knew there are truths so clear, so immovable, you don’t argue them — you acknowledge them. I’ll quote my husband here, something he reminds me of often, “Feelings are not fact.”

But now people want to invent a “new truth,” reshape it until it suits them, and then demand everyone else believe it too. That’s a lie straight from the father of lies himself. Maybe that’s why I hate it so much. How did we get so far apart? It disturbs me, and it saddens me. I’m baffled at how quickly we turn on each other, blind to the fact that the real enemy is stirring the pot — and we’re the ones handing him the spoon and jumping in headfirst.

Oh, how I would love to sit down with Paul. Jesus is my ultimate longing — and there’s already an appointed day set aside to see Him face to face. But Paul… Paul knew what it was to sin, and still to strive for holiness. He could say, ‘This is who I was — and this is who He made me.’ I’d love to sit with him, sinner to sinner, and talk about how words and truth and grace all weave together. I could sit and listen until I was long in the tooth — and still not get enough of it.

Until then, I’ll keep doing what I was made to do — holding words to the fire. I strive to follow Matthew 5:37: Let your ‘yes’ be ‘yes’ and your ‘no’ be ‘no.’

If a man doesn’t have his word, what does he have?