A Poisonous Tongue

“My soul is among lions: and I lie even among them that are set on fire, even the sons of men, whose teeth are spears and arrows, and their tongue a sharp sword.” (Psalms 57:4)

Stories today! Stories ripped from the dramatic pages of my stormy life. But first, a question: How responsible do you think you are for other people’s feelings?

Why, not at all, right? Everybody is responsible for themselves. Nobody makes you sad or angry; you choose to be sad or angry. You must be in control of yourself and your own feelings.

So we just go around, doing what we do, saying what we say, and never mind the feelings of anyone else? Well, probably that’s not how you live your life. You probably like to keep on good terms with friends, acquaintances, and strangers alike, so you guard your tongue in public. You hear someone talking on his cell phone in a theatre and you think how much you’d like to strangle him, but instead you politely ask him to keep it down. Right? Riiiiight.

“But the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison. Therewith bless we God, even the Father; and therewith curse we men, which are made after the similitude of God. Out of the same mouth proceedeth blessing and cursing. My brethren, these things ought not so to be.” (James 3:8-10)

I seem to have only two settings when reacting to people who irritate me: completely passive and rip-roaring angry. True, I rarely give voice to my anger and thus manage to avoid many destructive confrontations. But for some reason, I can’t seem to take a reasonable middle ground by calmly asking those who bug me to please stop what they’re doing before I hit my irrational boiling point. I’m like an emotional dry drunk. And based on anecdotal evidence, I’m not alone.

Story #1: Last Saturday, during the course of my regularly scheduled errands, I made a stop at McDonald’s to pick up lunch. At this particular location, two drive-thru lanes merge into one. A car to my left had the right of way, so I waited for it to take its place as the other cars pulled forward. It stayed put, so I motioned for the car to move in. Still nothing. After a bit, I assumed the other driver was generously letting me in. Tinted windows made it impossible to tell for sure, but I pulled into the lane anyway.

Next thing I knew, a very irate lady was banging on my window and yelling. Apparently she hadn’t seen me motion to her, and she wanted me to get out of her way RIGHT NOW. I immediately apologized, tried to explain, and promised to move. As I maneuvered to the back of the line, she pealed out in her short drive to the order window. Just a guess, but I think she was still angry.

It literally took me all day to get over being upset. Why? I did all I could to fix the situation. I did nothing to have lasting regret over, like punch her in the face or threaten her firstborn. But I, who in theory am supposed to be responsible for my own feelings, did not in practice find it so very easy to control them.

Now, lest I provoke too much disdain toward Angry Lady, let me recount how I essentially did many of the same things just couple of days later.

Story #2: On Monday, I was sitting on the couch in the family room with a cup of Pero. My 7-year-old, who’d recently returned from school, joyfully jumped right into my lap. Steaming hot liquid flew everywhere, but mostly on me. “Jacob!” I yelled angrily.

He immediately apologized, “I’m sorry, Mom!” I snapped at him to get me a towel, and growled as I mopped myself up. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he repeated with a hangdog look that was 180 degrees from his appearance when he had bounced into the room only moments before.

I did that. My son made an innocent mistake, and I yelled at him and made him sad. He apologized, but I grumbled. Thankfully, I caught myself and calmed down enough to say, “I know you’re sorry, and I forgive you. Just don’t jump on people anymore.” Those few words and he was happy again. Off he skipped to get his own cup of hot chocolate.

By offering forgiveness, I differed from Angry Lady, and it made all the difference in the outcome. But it’s a lot easier to forgive someone you know and love—and who is an adorable child to boot—so I guess I can give her a break. Plus, she gets points for not swearing at me.

“Why do any of us have to be so mean and unkind to others? Why can’t all of us reach out in friendship to everyone about us? Why is there so much bitterness and animosity? It is not a part of the gospel of Jesus Christ.” (Gordon B. Hinckley, General Conference, April 2006)

After stating the above, President Hinckley went on to acknowledge that “We all stumble occasionally. We all make mistakes.” But he urged us to cultivate a spirit of kindness and forgiveness in our hearts. He added, “We cannot be complacent about it.”

This says to me that I can’t just hope I don’t lose my temper—I have to work at keeping it. The damage I might inflict on others with unkind words or angry tones is real, and I’m responsible for it. While each person may be ultimately responsible for his or her own feelings, no one is an island. We depend on each other for emotional, spiritual, and physical support. As far as it is within our power, let’s try to build each other up instead of tearing each other down.

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Today’s poem isn’t really a poem—it’s part of Meditation XVII by John Donne. These particular lines are about how the death of one person affects us all. However, I like to apply the same sentiment to spiritual and emotional pain. Empathizing with our brothers and sisters who are experiencing difficulties is a big part of bearing one another’s burdens, mourning with those who mourn, and comforting those who stand in need of comfort (Mosiah 18:8-9).

No Man Is An Island
by John Donne

No man is an island,

entire of itself;

every man is a piece of the continent,

a part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less,

as well as if a promontory were,

as well as if a manor of thy friend's

or of thine own were:

any man's death diminishes me,

because I am involved in mankind,

and therefore never send to know

for whom the bells tolls;

it tolls for thee.