it's just a word...

I remember the first time I felt those letters roll around inside my angry mouth. One at a time, the "f" bumping against my teeth as it tumbled around like a little boy struggling to do a cartwheel (we all know that most little boys are cartwheel challenged). The letters started soldering together and the heat and flux seared my tongue and gums like pure acid. Was it really any different than saying "duck"? That word, you know, the "f" one, can really mean so many things. It can define the obvious. It can vomit hate or it can be as tepid as a forgettable frustration. Words can be sweetness one day and a razor the next.

I was twelve, Minnesota was hot, and forced togetherness was choking the introverted breath from my soul. Like an Alka Seltzer tablet dropped into a glass of warm water, the adolescent anger was bubbling under the surface. The explosion spewed as the parental demand was uttered.
"*&%# you!"
"What did you say?"
Honesty equaled stupidity. I quietly repeated myself. That's what a childhood of Baptist Sunday School will get you. I was told to go and wash my mouth out with soap. As the suds multiplied in my mouth I realized that no one was watching me complete the punishment. Was it a developing moral compass that compelled me to honesty and obedience?

I wanted to be a good girl. The fear was very real that any action might exclude me from heaven. I just wanted to be loved. If I could I would go back and hold that little girls hand. We'd take a walk and I'd tell her that every feeling, thought and wound, from this distance of time and growing, was an absolutely necessary prelude to the process of healing her life. I would wipe the tear from her cheek and let her know that the cycle of violence would end and grace would be an everyday ingredient in her parenting...that her children would know, without even knowing otherwise, grace.