Little words can make a big difference

The right word can make all the difference.

Even in a world where there are times when it feels as though we are buried in a landslide of vowels and consonants, there are still magic words that reassure us or comfort us or appease us.

I’ve known people whose lives could have been changed if only they’d heard what they needed to hear.

There was the addict who no matter how many times it was given by family and friends could not find forgiveness. No matter how many times it was offered, the word never broke through his craving and pierced his guilt.

There was the woman whose husband, out of anger and resentment, refused to call her by name. He kept the single word between his teeth, refusing to say it aloud year after year until she began to feel as though she wasn’t really there at all, that she had faded away to nothing. She begged to hear him speak her name but his power was in his silence and he wielded it like a weapon.

There was the friend who, well into middle age, still wished aloud that he had heard, just once, the words “I love you” from his father. The woman who, despite an outwardly successful life, still felt the tender spot where her mother’s approval should have been.

In a lifetime you hear so many empty words it’s easy to forget just how much the right ones really matter. But the right thing, spoken at the right time can make all the difference.

When I was a child my grandmother told me that I could be whatever I wanted to be if I wanted it badly enough. I still hear her voice when I set my mind to something. I still believe her.

Every year I give my children a Christmas ornament. It’s usually something to commemorate an event or achievement from that year. There are soccer balls, mortar boards to celebrate graduations, miniature pianos to remind them of special pieces played at recitals and souvenir ornaments from family vacations that are hung on the tree each year. But this year, well, this year was tricky. I was at a loss. I didn’t know where to begin.

Then, in Chicago, spending a long weekend with an old friend I hadn’t seen in years, I walked through Crate and Barrel; a popular spot on the Magnificent Mile. The place was crowded with holiday shoppers and I had to shoulder my way through. One of the trees on display was decorated with inexpensive little silver boxes. Each hung from a silver cord and when the tiny hasp was opened the velvet lining was revealed.

Two young women were looking at them.

“I’d like to see a ring with a big diamond in one of these,” one of the women said.

“Yeah. Good things come in little packages,” the other replied.

I bought four, one for each of my children, and brought them home. I was sure I would find something to put in the boxes later.

The holidays were hectic. They were over before I got my feet under me. It was New Year’s Day, and the tree was already down when I finally got around to giving them their ornaments. Inside each box was a single piece of paper with the words, “Ten Things I Love About You.”

Each list was different, specifically written for its recipient. It was all pretty simple stuff, nothing flowery or even particularly creative. If I am honest – a very powerful word in itself – I have to admit I didn’t try very hard to find anything else to give them. And when time was up, I fell back on what comes easiest to me. At the end of a very complicated year, by default, I made a gift out what I had at hand: I gave them all one word – a word I hope will make a difference, a real difference to each child – spelled out in 40 different ways.

It doesn’t take a big box to hold a lot of love.