Taking back power

I heard or read recently that "words have power."  It stuck with me because I have a terrible mouth and my son is at the age when he will use the language he hears and he's smart enough to use it in its proper context.  The first time you hear a child curse, it may make you chuckle, but when a child uses foul language regularly, it becomes ugly and it tarnishes their beauty and their innocence.   I want my children to love themselves, be happy in who they are and become; I want them to do, speak, and act in a way to please themselves to enrich their spirits and their lives before they concern themselves with how others perceive them.  And so, I have to watch my language. 

My parents went through the same thing.  I remember, as a small child, hearing my parents curse and then I remember never hearing them curse.  Growing up, I never heard my parents curse.  When I heard it from others, it was abrasive and sometimes scary.  When I started working out of college, I took as position in logisitcs: moving freight on the railways and over the road.  I'd have to call the trucking agencies and as a woman in a man's field, it was practically a requirement to use foul language.  They didn't hear you or care if you didn't use the F-word: it had power.  When I used it they knew I was in charge and if I wasn't using it I wasn't talking to them because I found a new carrier and I had taken my business elsewhere.

Power is in my blood.  I am from a family of very strong women and very strong personalities.  I'm very close to all the women in my family; we're like sisters, my aunts and I.  My grandfather was the head of the family, but as they say "behind every good man is his wife."  And she, Nanny, was the matriarch, she was the boss.  She was a lady: and the best kind.  She was Carol Brady in a real-world, don't-cross-me kind of way.  She was a lady, she meant business; SHE headed the women and to us she could have ruled the world.  My grandmother was on her own pedestal; she was bigger than we were, she was greater than we were and we loved her for it.

One day in casual conversation she dropped an F-bomb.  Up until that moment, we'd never heard her speak that way.  Once she said it though, it was like the story was exponentially greater than it was without it.  The f-bomb knocked down a wall and we felt closer to her.  We felt like she'd let us in, we had grown to her approval and she was welcoming us inside her elite world.  We looked up to her and I love her for dropping the F-bomb. 

Unfortunately, though, that day marked the end of our dynasty.  The f-word spread like wildfire among us and to use it was just as well as using the word "the".  We didn't flinch when we used it; we didn't flinch when we'd heard others use it.  Sometimes it works to my advantage, just like with Nanny, it brings people in, it helps them relax, they feel more comfortable.  But sometimes, it works to my disadvantage, and sometimes I'll say it without even thinking and I cringe as it's fresh off my tongue and it lingers; in those moments I wish I could rewind and start over, but time isn't always on our side.  Using foul language has become common, and so have we.  It's amazing how much power one word can have.

I want my children to feel safe.  I want them to feel confident without resorting to using foul language.  I want to have the power, because I want them to have the power to rise against a jaded machine.   Hold steadfast the innate power of your person, because words do have power, but the power must first be given.

I am praying for grace and mindfulness.  I'm praying to be aware of my actions and my words. Amen.

OK! I'll blog.

I'm being moved to blog.  I've been hesitant to blog without reservation.  I have all these thoughts going through my mind and for the longest time I thought: no one will care.  But as it stands right now, I'm the only one who even reads this, and I care.  If I don't get these thoughts out, it'll drive me crazy.  Then I thought, well I'll journal.  My Aunt Denise gave me a journal for my seventh birthday.  I was in second grade.  I began to journal almost every night.  I continued journaling all through high school and college.  After college, I was busy with work and life and I didn't have time for it anymore.  So now that I'm going crazy with all these thoughts, I figured I'd start journaling again.  But I'm a much faster typist and I tend to forget my point when I'm writing by hand.  And so, despite my reservations about sharing my thoughts and my fear of being faced with judgement and rejection, I'll blog.  I'll blog because in all the big questions I've asked myself lately: "am I woman enough?" "what does God want me to do?"  I think I have to start with brainstorming.  So, Blog, it's me: Jaclyn.

On the Oprah show (I don't remember specifics) there was a woman, a young mother, who found out she had cancer and started video taping herself for her children.  I always think about that: if I'm ever not here.  I wonder "will they remember me?"  It's devastating to think my children wouldn't; it's devastating to think that there are lessons I've learned and things I'd want them to know and in case I'm ever not able, or in case I forget, I'd like to think they might stumble upon this.

When I met my husband, I knew I was going to be with him.  That was the day I went out and bought my first journal out of college.  I started writing to him.  I told him about it later, and I told him where it was in case he ever wondered what I was thinking.  Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, he never really has to guess what I'm thinking.

When I found out I was pregnant with each of my children, I did the same.  I started a journal for each of them.  Often times, I think about what I want to write, I'll even edit it in my head in the car ride home from somewhere.  Yet to sit down in my bedroom and write it out, executing what I really want to do and tell them all the things I would have liked to know about myself as a child, it rarely happens.  They deserve better.

"They deserve better" has been the commonality in most of my thoughts from the day I gave birth to my first child.  At first it was a guilty "they deserve better", a self-deprecating "they deserve better".  Now I feel healthier, now it's a self-help approach: how do I fulfill all the dreams I have for them, knowing that it will enrich my life as well?  The laundry may not get done.  My hair may not get dried.  But I will blog, for me.  I will blog for them.  And in all the moments I begin to doubt myself I hope I find this.  And in case they ever doubt themselves, or me, or life in general, and in case I'm not there to tell them or in case I forget: I hope they stumble upon this.

In this moment, I ask God for guidance and courage.  Amen.