I feel a stab of shame, Lord, when I lose it and use your name in vain. It happened again this morning when that teenager slammed on his brakes right in front of me and put me into a skid. And I just erupted with a whole paragraph of cursing. I’m so sorry, Father. I was grateful to be driving solo, but I know you heard it all.
What I really hate in myself is those other times where I’m with friends, and I’m “on stage” or telling an anecdote . . . and somehow it feels like a spicy word will just put me over the top. And there’s this moment, a brief flicker of conscience before I cave in and go for the shock value of an R-rated word. And I don’t even have the excuse of a bashed thumb or a sudden irritation. It’s nothing but pure showing off, Lord, and I feel so ashamed afterward. Please, please forgive me.
Please make the idea of swearing hateful to me before the opportunity comes, not after. I want to have a holy mind, and I want to love you so much that the temptation becomes unthinkable.
David B. Smith Books 