Bless

I’ve lived in Texas for eight years now. Eight years.

Long enough to make “y’all” a regular pronoun in my conversations.

Long enough to find myself reflexively blessing the hearts of people who annoy the crap out of me.

Long enough to call Jesus “sweet” as I plead his mercy over that annoyance.

TEXAS, y’all. It changes you if you let it.

But that phrase: “Bless his heart!” (along with the extended version, “Bless her ever-lovin’ little heart,” and the abbreviated version delivered with rolled eyes and gritted teeth, “BLESS”) . . . that sweet little Southern phrase has gradually been doing a number on me, I think. I’m well aware that it is often used as a nice-girl weapon – a way to call someone a hot mess while sounding sweet about it. But it doesn’t have to be used that way. And you know, it turns out that speaking a blessing over the heart of an irritant is a pretty fruitful daily practice.

When my student continues to speak out of turn in class, interrupting my well-planned and well-timed lessons with the distracting thoughts that my instruction just brought to his mind, I feel the annoyance, but then I bless his little heart . . . because I know that boy is not trying to be a disrespectful pest. He’s excited about life – appreciative of the things I’m saying – making personal connections between my teaching and his life – and these are all good things. He’ll get control of his mouth eventually, with some loving guidance.

When I’m trying to get on the freeway and some lady with a messy hair-bun on her head and attitude on her face refuses to yield and let me in, I feel the irritation . . . and then I bless her heart. Because I have no idea what’s happening in her life right now, what difficult conversation she just had with her boss, what crisis she is facing with a child that haunts her mind and never lets her alone, what aches she is feeling in her body that no doctor can cure and that fight for her attention as she tries to drive. I don’t know that she’s being a selfish jerk. Assuming that she is wouldn’t change the situation or do my soul any good. So, I’ll assume otherwise. Bless her heart.

When a friend posts an article on Facebook that touts a view of the world which I find crazy and infuriating, I feel the rage for a moment . . . I feel the fear for a moment . . . I feel the disappointment for a bit longer . . . and then I bless his heart. At least I make a real effort at it now. He’s not trying to destroy the church or the country or life as we know it. He thinks he’s speaking God’s truth. He thinks he’s saving the world – really. He just doesn’t know how wrong he is.

(Or then again, maybe I don’t know how wrong I am. Bless my heart, too.)

I don’t mean to imply that I’m actually this full of grace all the time. Lord knows, I am not. But these habitual words that I say, often without even thinking about them anymore – they are not empty. Words matter. And the more they come out of my mouth, the more I find they affect my mind and heart in a very good way.

In the most terrible moment of his life, betrayed by friends, accused unjustly, tortured mercilessly, hanging on a piece of wood with his life ebbing away, Jesus looked at the people who made this all happen and said to his father, “Bless their hearts . . . they don’t know what they’re doing.” At least that’s how it might have come out of his mouth if he’d grown up in Austin rather than Nazareth.

I’m supposed to be like him. I’m supposed to forgive as I’ve been forgiven. Love as I’ve been loved. “Be perfect, as God is perfect.” Those expectations are beyond intimidating. How in the world do I get there?

Well, it may start with genuinely blessing the heart of the lady who let her dog poop in my yard. Sweet Jesus . . . BLESS.