home, and never from my mother. I can remember pushing the envelope around my dad a few times, and I remember paying for it, too. Daddy wore a size 32” belt. He wasn’t terribly strict, but he drew a definite line as far as language went. But around Momma we didn’t test the limits. There was no wiggle room. Crude, rude, discourteous language was simply never allowed in her presence. Not because she thought she was born 15 miles from the nearest sin, but because she knew our words would, in part, determine what sort of people we would be. Whenever my tongue dared venture too far, Momma reined me in with this warning, “Watch your language.” Huh?
Maybe this is not altogether clear, but I want you to help me keep my tongue in check. Help me watch my language. Sometimes I forget who I am. Occasionally I don’t remember where I’m from. Sometimes I can’t seem to recall my family name.
So, when I say “I” it should be in reference to one who follows Jesus. That should also be true when I refer to “me.” Especially help me make sure that when I say “us,” I mean church. When I say “we,” I need to mean God’s people. And when I say “our,” I want always to have in mind “us” because that’s who God wants “me” to be.

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