On Jesus and Family and Cussing in Church


When I was about four years old, I was in this foster home. See, my birth mom was a drug addict, an alcoholic and a prostitute and my birth dad was all those things, too. Well, minus the prostitute part. I don’t think he got paid, but he had his porn magazines and I remember the hotel rooms and the other women.

Anyways, me and my little brother were in and out of foster homes and I have this vivid memory of the first time I went to church. That foster momma must have been spiritual because she took us to church each Sunday and probably on Wednesday nights, too.

There I was about three feet tall, standing in church when everybody else started singing. Only problem was I couldn’t exactly read those words out of that song book yet, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to be singing. So, I did the only thing I knew to do at the moment. I cussed.

Yep, I sang a whole string of four letter words right up to God. And that foster mom, she looked down at me like I was the sweetest thing. I’m guessing she couldn’t hear me.


When I was seven, I was adopted. One afternoon, as we turned off onto our dusty dirt road, my new momma told me about how God made me and this whole place and that He loved us and that’s why He sent His Son. Ever since then, I’ve come to know my Maker in a deeper, more personal way. And pretty much, every day I’m in awe of Him.

When I wasn’t looking for God, He was already on His way to find me. When I didn’t know what church was good for, He brought church to me in the form of a new family. And what is church anyways? Church isn’t a place to go on Sundays. Church is family.

There’s this story about this guy in the Bible named Nathanael. When Jesus saw him walking toward Him, He recognized him and called him out. Nathanael was caught off guard. “How do You know me?” he asked. Then Jesus said something that only He and Nathaniel really understood. He said, “I saw you when you were standing under the fig tree.”


I don’t know about you, friend, but I’m comforted by a God who sees. Who sees the aching, the doubting, the overwhelmed, the clinging with that one speck of faith, and He sees the little foul-mouthed four year olds.

Do you have a minute? Because there’s this song:



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