Always look up… and speak words of life. Your body and soul will thank you!
Photo: Roger M. Richards
Warning: This blog post contains a few “cuss” words.
When I was growing up, cursing or–as we say in the south–cussing, was forbidden in our home.
We weren’t Baptist, Pentecostal, or fundamentalist. We were very involved members of our beloved Moravian Church, a Protestant liturgical denomination that predates Martin Luther’s Reformation. Still, “cussing” was considered, at least in my young eyes, as a sin, right up there with lying, stealing, and not attending church.
Looking back, I don’t think I ever allowed a curse word to escape my lips… not even sure I considered it. Even though our church was not fundamentalist, I was scared to death that I would be banished to the eternal flames of hell (which, in my mind, was situated underneath the earth’s crust). I did hear my Daddy utter “Damn it!” a few times in fits of rage, and the only time I heard my mother say that word was one day when I was provoking her as teen and looking for an argument.
Side note: “Shit” did come out of her mouth more than once, and one of my beloved aunts–a good Christian woman–was known for her exclamations of “shit fire!”
I never did figure out what that meant.
At some point, though, I spoke that first bad word–maybe in college, but I don’t think so. Actually, I was probably well into my young adult years before a curse word came out of me. My mother considered unladylike for a southern miss to curse.
As my dear late cousin Linda might have said, “Lord, have mercy!” The times have changed…
In the last decade or so, the so-called “F bomb” has become almost reflexive for me, a part of my daily vocabulary. It mostly falls on the ears of my cat, Pablo, and echoes off the walls of my home and my car. In other words, I largely say it when I am talking to myself or screaming at drivers who are clearly ignoring speed limits and turn signals. My sons have heard me say it a few times. I always preface it with “Pardon my French” or after saying it with, “Forgive me for saying that.”
They chuckle at my efforts to repent, and I laugh thinking how when they were growing up, “Shut up!” was considered cursing… at least in our home. When I took them to see an Austin Powers movie, my younger son referred to the Scottish character, Fat Bastard, as “Fat Bad Word.”
I get a few giggles here and there on social media when certain people will admit to saying a curse word, then they write sentences about how they hope God will forgive them.
Trust me: He does, and I am not so sure that saying an F bomb on occasion is going to knock our Heavenly Father off his throne. He has bigger things to attend to.
Still, having taken a deeper dive into yoga over five years ago, I have studied much about energy and vibrations, and I used to always tell my life coaching clients that they are the number one hearer of their words. Whatever we say vibrates inside our bodies and settles in our minds.
And as I consider my body the temple of the Holy Spirit–the vessel by which I try to show love to others–filling it with “bad words” is negative.
Last summer, I wrote the ugliest thing to EVER come out of me in an email to a man I briefly went out with a few years back. Given how he treated me as a friend (forget the brief dating period), I refer to that six months or so as my brain fart period, because he clearly had zero respect for me. That said, this guy blew up my phone one Friday evening, obviously when his SC-based girlfriend was not visiting him–and let’s just say he said some very inappropriate things that angered me and that would have crushed his SO.
So later that week, I sat down and unloaded in an email. If the F word DID banish one to hell (and, of course, it doesn’t), I’d be a pile of overly burnt ashes. I’m not proud of that, but at least I didn’t read the long email out loud. My body would have been jolted from the deeply negative vibrations.
This morning, as I was writing a devotional for my upcoming Advent book, God gave me these words to describe a group of people who once gathered around my Advent wreath, singing “O, Come Emmanuel.”
A single, flickering flame of light, dancing in hope and praise, as our collective breath and lyrics provided it with holy stoking.
I wrote that, and when I juxtapose it with that horrible (but cleansing) email I wrote last year, it shows two different people–Spirit-filled Amy and well, I suppose, Satan-filled Amy.
Here’s the thing: We are humans. Cursing is NOT going to doom someone to whatever “hell” is. Some studies have shown– and this is true–that most frequent cursers are highly intelligent. It’s slang, for goodness sakes. The good old F word–which is actually pretty fun to say– is an American English slang word; and while it’s known the world over, it has its counterparts in other countries.
Look, I will still drop an F bomb here and there, but what I really love vibrating through my being are words of hymns. Singing in or out of church sends good vibrations through our bodies. Call up some Danny Gokey or Toby Mac on your home listening device and sing while you clean your kitchen. Read scripture out loud (something I always do). Pray aloud to God. Speak words of love and words that build people up rather than tear them down. Your body, heart, and mind will be better for it.
And if you happen to see me driving down the road, and it appears I am yelling some not so nice words, just know this:
I always ask God to forgive me for having called some unknown driver a “flip flop floopy.”
Always.
Amy Walton is a Christian blogger and author, among other things. She allows God to give her the words to put on paper, but she also can demonstrate a wicked potty mouth, which she’s trying to curb. Connect with her at amywaltoncoaching@gmail.com.
