The F-Word.

When I was a boy, about the age of 9 was the first time I remember ever saying the F-word.
I wasn't a swearing boy, in fact I think that I was a pretty good kid, it's just, well, I said it at what I thought was the right time. I remember it like it was yesterday. Down the street from culdesac that I lived in, and over another street, was a street called Ironwood. It wasn't a heavily populated street, and it had a number of vacant lots. One day in a vacant lot my older brother, a few other friends, and I were messing around. We were doing our usual messing around, building huts, and playing games, around 4:00 PM a game erupted and due to some technicalities that I don't quite remember my older brother and I ended up in a fight. It wasn't an unusual showing, we probably had a good fight every couple of days. This was a little more intense because there were a few friends watching. There wasn't a lot of cheering or people trying to get us to fight, it was just my brother and I doing what came natural to us. I felt a little more pressure than usual because there were a number of older kids watching and I wanted to do a little better that I normally did. As my brother and I circled, I made the executive decision to not take the famous uppercut gut shot that I seemed to always step in to. It was a tool of evil that my brother always new how to throw just at the right time, always landing in the right place, sending all of the air out of my lungs paired with a deep uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, that seemed to last forever. I decided that I needed to pull out a tool that I had never previously used, the F word. I positioned myself correctly dropped my hands, looked my brother in the eye and said it. I won't go into details on how I used it, just that I did. I didn't say it more than once, I didn't need to. As I said it, I watched my brothers hands drop, his face go pale, his lip quiver slightly, and, for a brief moment that vacant lot went silent. The fight was over, and I had won, or at least I thought I had won. That was when I realized that my brother had even better ammo, he looked at me and pulled what I thought was an even cheaper shot that what I had thrown. He looked at me and said: "I'm telling mom". Not in a whiny tattletale sort of way, just a quiet, slow, you don't know what kind of trouble you are in sort of way. He turned around, got on his bike and rode for home. I stayed that evening a little later in that vacant lot, pondering what had happened, and wondering what I had in store. I wondered what would happen to me that night, would it be the running butt kick from my Dad, the soap from my Mom, or the Bedroom grounding? I just didn't know what I had coming. I had never crossed into this territory. I was in uncharted waters. All three punishments were equal in magnitude. The Running butt kick usually consisted of me running away from my dad, and him always catching up with a good kick in the butt. It didn't hurt the butt as bad as it hurt the feelings, the "washing the mouth out with soap" usually consisted of my mother taking my toothbrush, wetting it, scrubbing the bar of soap and then scrubbing my tongue for a short period of time. And the bedroom was just simply sitting in my room for the rest of the night. I could have only hoped for such a punishment when I got home.

I arrived home a dinner time, and by the look on my parent faces, I could tell something was definitely up. Nothing was said at first, we blessed the food, and and began to dig in to either deer meet or casserole. I can't quite remember. I looked over at my older brother to kind of read the situation, he looked quite serious, and for a brief moment I thought he hadn't told. Then I got it, the worse punishment, or worse form of punishment that I ever remember getting from my Mom or Dad. My mother looked at me and said:" David, I heard you said the F-word today?" I looked down and said yes, but.. I was cut off to something that I never forgot. "David, I'm really disappointed in you. I always thought you were a nice boy and didn't talk that way. My mother then went into a speech about how a lady a few streets over always complimented her on her boys language. After we sat there for a minute, my dad looked at me and said, "we don't talk that way around here". and that was it. No formal punishment, just me with my thoughts. Something kind of hit me and I thought about it "I always thought you were a nice boy". Was I not a nice boy any more? Did I loose that status? Did the F-word and it's use turn me to the dark side? Was I a stoner now? Did I need to stop by the store and buy a Motely Crue T-shirt and sew hair metal band patches onto my jacket? Should I start smoking? I liked being a nice boy. I wondered if I had given that up by the public F bombing that I had thrown out. I thought about that for the rest of the nights activities. When I would walk past my mom in the house she would give me that sad disappointed look that felt like needles piercing my eyes. I was different now, I had managed to make such a drastic change from light to dark, green light saber to red, through the thoughtless use of a single syllable four letter word. What had I done? I felt horrible. I went into my room and sat down on my bed. I looked out the window as the sun set in the sky. The room was bright as the sun hit the yellow bedspreads draped across the two twin beds in my room. I didn't even want to think about the F-word. Look what I had become. As night fell, my younger brother came into the room, I watched him kneel down to say his prayers. I sat there for a moment and contemplated weather I should even say my prayers. Would they be heard? Now that I was not a nice boy would my prayers stop at the sparkled ceiling of my bedroom? I decided that I would give it one last shot before I gave into that dark side that was slowly trying to overcome me. I slowly slid off the bed and onto my knees. I folded my arms and closed my eyes and began my silent prayer. Heavenly Father, I'm sorry for saying the F-word, I don't want to be bad, please don't be mad at me. I knelt there for a minute and a feeling of peace started to overcome that knot of guilt that had been hurting my insides. I felt better. I didn't feel like a stoner or a bad boy. I felt at peace, I didn't feel like I had set my course for eternal damnation any more. I closed my prayer and climbed into bed. I quickly fell asleep. The next morning I woke up to my mother making breakfast. I walked into the kitchen, my mother said "good morning Dave" with a smile, and kissed me on the forehead. I felt good, I knew that God had forgiven me and my mother had forgiven me. I realised that, just as my Mother would always love me, there is a Father in Heaven that will always love me.
I think I learned at a young age, that regardless of what we do, weather they be big mistakes or little mistakes or a whole bunch of little and big mistakes mixed together. At the end of the day we don't have to be that bad person that Satan tries to make us feel that we are pre-destined to be. It doesn't matter if we have days or years worth of mistakes. There is always a way out, and there are always arms open waiting to take us back.
I learned a better F-Word. Forgiveness