There was only one rule at English Camp, and it was regularly enforced: No French words allowed.
The penalty for an infraction was to deduct points from your cabin’s team, a consequence painful enough that all of us tried our best to stay within the confines of the English language. This was a sacrifice we were willing to make for two weeks out of every summer.
When I was growing up in France as a missionary kid in the early 90’s, my parents (along with many other missionary families serving throughout France) sent me to English Camp so I could practice reading and writing in my first language. It seems there was a collective concern that we had become so fluent in French that we were in danger of losing our ability to read and write in English.
So for two weeks, our parents sent us off to English Camp in the French Alps, where a group of volunteers from America would spend every morning with us doing typical language arts activities. In the afternoons, we would do typical camp activities: hikes, crafts, games, skits, and singing around a campfire. It was the highlight of my year.
Looking back on the “no French” rule, it seems obvious to me now that when a group of English-speaking adults are responsible for the welfare of 80-or-so kids, they need to be in control of any potential shenanigans. And when those 80 kids, many of whom were teenagers, can all speak a different language than the adults, hijinks could very well ensue.
At the time, though, the rule felt painful. Here was a rare and beautiful situation when all of us misfits could gather together and feel totally normal. We all knew intimately the joy and frustration of living in France but not being truly French, and living in America while never being truly American. We were chameleons living in that liminal space between two cultures without full membership to either one. And one of the primary markers of this status was our ability to start a sentence in English and end it in French. Or vice versa. Or slip into downright Frenglish.
The ability to be perfectly understood with just the right combination of phrases and expressions was a joy so new and delightful to us, that we rolled our eyes when the well-meaning camp counselors said “English only” and resumed our conversations in hushed tones away from the adults.
Whether you can speak another language or not, I sincerely hope you’ve had the kind of experience I’m describing: a deep, shared understanding built on words.
I just finished reading Babel by R.F. Kuang, a book about the power of language, especially as it relates to empire, power, and race. She writes:
“That’s just what translation is, I think. That’s all speaking is. Listening to the other and trying to see past your own biases to glimpse what they’re trying to say. Showing yourself to the world, and hoping someone else understands.”
― R.F. Kuang, Babel
All writing, and conversation, and speaking, and art, and music is a form of expression where we “show ourselves to the world and hope someone else understands.” And it’s absolutely magical when someone does. Language is like that. It has the power to connect us and to unite us, but it can also tear down and destroy. Words can reveal and misdirect, persuade and convict.
The apostle James thought our tongue was one of the mightiest parts of our body. He likened it to a bit in a horse’s mouth, by which we guide its’ whole body, or to a small rudder that guides a large ship, or to a small spark that sets a forest ablaze. His aim was to caution against using our tongue for evil, saying:
“With it we bless the Lord and Father, and with it we curse people, made in the likeness of God.” (James 3:9)
I don’t often give enough thought to the power of my own words, especially the spoken ones. And yet how many times have I been encouraged by a compliment, or had my feelings validated by a listening friend? How many times have I felt seen and understood by the words of another?
When I think about stewardship in the life of faith, I think about money, time, and resources. But I’m beginning to think that our words need to be stewarded as well.
Too often, we hold back our nice thoughts for fear of sounding awkward or forward. What if we were bolder in calling it like we see it? I appreciate all you do around here. I always feel better when I talk to you. I love knowing you understand. You’re so great at helping me see the good in these situations.
Too often, we are busy formulating our next thought instead of truly listening to another. What if we were people who rushed to listen instead of speak, giving others the gift of being seen and known?
Too often, we shrink back from questioning or challenging those in authority. What if we could use our voice in truth and in love, giving others the opportunity to consider a differing perspective?
Too often, we don’t realize that our words are powerful tools with which we can join God in God’s kingdom-building work. What if we paused before we spoke, inviting the Holy Spirit to work in and through the things we say?
The tongue may be small, but in God’s hands, it can be a spark of light in a dark world. May we steward our words with courage and care, because every sentence we speak carries the possibility of building God’s kingdom here and now.
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Sarah K. Butterfield 