Insert Foot in Mouth
In the Epistle of James, we read: “The tongue is a fire, the very world of iniquity; the tongue is set among our members as that which defiles the entire body, and sets on fire the course of our life, and is set on fire by hell.” Hoo boy. I’ll go along with that. My mouth is always getting me in trouble.
It happened again just last week. I was at a get-together, just sitting around chatting, when a very dear friend arrived. “How’re you doin’?” she asked. “Better than you,” I replied without thinking. Her face fell. “Oh. So you’ve heard?” Huh? No clue. “Heard? What? I haven’t heard anything.” “Oh. From what you said—I figured someone must have told you. I’m getting a divorce.” Insert foot…
This seems to be a life-long problem with me. Examples are numerous, but I’ll just highlight a few particularly painful ones. When I was a freshman in college at the University of Missouri, I hitchhiked home to my parents’ house in St. Louis. The house was empty when I arrived, but I could hear people conversing on the back porch. I went out and found my folks having drinks with the couple next door. I grabbed a beer, sat down, and answered the obligatory questions about college life, dorm food and my weight. Then an object on the back porch caught my attention. “Oh my God,” I said, “who on earth gave you those awful wind chimes?” My mother glared at me, and my father looked down at the concrete floor. “Uh, we did,” said the neighbor’s wife. Insert foot…
One of the supposed perks of my job is that you get to play an active role in your children’s educations. All three of mine passed through my high school—as a matter of fact, they all took my Creative Writing class (at different times). At least one wishes he didn’t.
The first major assignment is an autobiography; six chapters long, visual aids, life map, a pretty package. On the due date, each student reads on chapter aloud to the class. It so happened that my son was absent on the due date. A boy read his chapter on how much he loved roller-coasters. Afterwards, I responded. “I don’t like roller-coasters, because I don’t like heights. Which is a problem when we go to amusement parks. My daughter is absolutely fearless. There isn’t a roller-coaster in America she wouldn’t go on. My sons, thankfully, are a little more cautious. I mean, they like them, but they’ll check it out first. If it’s a little foreboding, they’ll take a pass.”
Fast forward to next day, my son back, his turn to read a chapter. “My favorite thing is roller-coasters,” he reads, “the bigger, the faster, the scarier, the better.” The class breaks out laughing—he looks up, embarrassed, uncomprehending. Insert foot…
I have a worse one! I’m walking down the hallway during my conference period, and my other son is sitting in a desk outside of a room. “What’cha doin’?” I ask. “Making up a current events quiz.” A flash of inspiration. His teacher is one of my coaching friends. I open the classroom door. “Uh, excuse me, coach, but I think we have a problem out here. This young man seems to be cheating on a quiz.” “Oh, is that right?” says the coach, going along. “We’ll just have to see about this.” He steps into the hallway, lifts my son’s paper—and finds another student’s quiz underneath! Total mortification all the way around. Insert foot…
The tongue is a fire, no doubt. But a few small words in my defense. When my dear friend says “How’re you doin’?” and I respond “Fine”, the conversation has basically ended, or is looking for a new beginning. My reply invites further interaction. Conversation is an art, and art involves taking risks and self-revelation and exploration. The people I enjoy talking to most are the ones who don’t censor themselves too tightly—who are honest and open and funny and maybe even a little off-putting at times. I like conversations that surprise me. Burn on.
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