While helping with the construction of Zion, I once assisted in applying insulation film to the windows. That’s when I learned an important lesson: although wiping the film with a cloth or microfiber can make the surface look clean, it often leaves behind countless fine scratches. A professional advised us to use only soft flannel for cleaning, as it was gentle enough to avoid damaging the film. Yet even with flannel, scratches could still appear, revealing how delicate the surface truly was.
“You see these marks left behind even after cleaning with flannel?” he said, pointing them out. “That’s not damage to the film; it’s the glass itself that’s already been scratched. Once the glass is marred, no matter how carefully you apply the film or how gently you clean it, the flaws will still show.”
Indeed, where he pointed, the blemishes on the film were clearly visible—not hidden, but highlighted. That’s when it struck me: perhaps words work in much the same way.
“Do it this way.”
“That’s not right.”
“This is how it should be.”
So often I’ve spoken with certainty, convinced I was right, only to realize later that my words had caused someone pain. Worse still, even when I became aware of the hurt I’d caused, I failed to properly apologize. The words wouldn’t come. I hesitated, fearing I’d make things worse, so I said nothing, leaving misunderstandings unresolved and wounds untended.
One day, someone I had hurt with my careless words responded to my belated apology with a hearty laugh and said,
“It’s all right. I forget things quickly.”
Tears welled up. Painful memories rarely fade so easily. I knew his words were meant to comfort me, to ease the burden I carried, even though they also bore the weight of my thoughtless remark.
James 3:2 says, “Anyone who is never at fault in what they say is perfect.” None of us are perfect, so it’s only natural that we stumble in speech. But still, carelessness with words should never become routine. Too often, I withheld kindness and comfort, offering only wounds in their place. How grieved God must have been, watching me speak without thought.
Once glass is scratched, there is no undoing it. And in the same way, once words are spoken, the wounds they leave behind cannot simply be erased. That lesson is now etched into my heart, like the marks on that glass—clear, permanent, and sobering. I carry it with me, determined not to make the same mistake again.