Free Found in Translation by Roger Bruner Page B

postscripts of sincerest apology, one each to God the Father, Jesus Christ the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
    Although I detested my susceptibility to swearing, I was thankful God forgave that sin more easily than Mom and Dad ….
    “Kim, what kind of example do you think you set for others—especially younger kids—when you talk like that? Do you want them to grow up thinking that’s the proper way for a Christian to speak? Yes, they’re just words, but are they the right words for a Christian to use? Jesus’ call to follow Him is an invitation to be your best. You never know whom you may offend or give the wrong impression to. You might even drive somebody away from Jesus with inappropriate word choices.”
    I wished they’d reword that sermon. I’d heard it often enough I could say it along with them.
    Oh, they were right about swearing being inappropriate, of course, although I thought anyone it might deter was in worse shape than I was. But I never argued with Mom and Dad. Not about swearing, anyhow. Why should I? Even I could see that it didn’t have any positive aspects.
    But hearing filthy language off and on all day every day of my senior year hadn’t helped. I didn’t have the courage to complain to my schoolmates about the way they talked. So I let their words sink deep into my subconscious, take root there, and sprout as noxious weeds in an otherwise well-cultivated verbal garden.
    Usually at the most inopportune times. Like at DFW this afternoon and just now when I bashed my head on the rock.
    Worst of all, though, I wasn’t always conscious of cursing. Sometimes I didn’t remember doing it. At least I never took God’s name in vain. I was sure of that. But I was scared I might do it yet and have lightning strike me some sunny day—like an unseen hand zapping an annoying, unsuspecting mosquito.
    Figuratively, if not literally.
    I needed to kick this swearing habit, and I needed to do it yesterday. I’d made a fresh start at orientation. I was proud of holding my tongue when I didn’t feel like it. But … I’d just blown it again.
    Only thirteen precious days remained for giving up cursing. Could I do better tomorrow? I’d have to. After all, tomorrow would be another day. For both me and Scarlett O’Hara.
    I reached under the blanket to examine the rock I’d hit my head on and snickered without amusement at finding myself between a rock and a hard place in more ways than one. My confidence about how much I’d accomplish on this trip had evaporated with the change of projects. Why didn’t I feel more enthusiastic about Santa María when I felt so sure God wanted me here?
    Why had He brought me this far and let roadblocks and detours keep popping up? The worst one was my own self-doubt. If I couldn’t live up to my own expectations, how could I ever hope to live up to God’s?
    If God had wanted to close the door on this trip, why didn’t He do it before I left home? At least I’d be lying comfortably in my own bed without a budding headache rather than tossing and turning on a stinky old blanket in a dirt field in the wilds of Mexico among a bunch of snobby Christian girls.
    Not that the boys were much better. But at least they were out of sight in their own field.
    Touching the back of my head as delicately as if it were made of butterfly wings, I winced in pain. But at least I couldn’t find any traces of blood—wet or dried—on my scalp or in my hair.
    I’d inherited some outstanding physical traits from my Vietnamese mother. Not just the glossiest head of black hair a girl could hope for, but also dark brown eyes and slightly darker-than-normal Caucasian skin that resembled a permanent low-grade tan. Each summer, I worked hard at improving on it. Since my face didn’t have any Asian features, nobody knew about my mixed background unless I told them.
    Because I had so much of my dad in me, I looked like an all-American hybrid. At least I didn’t get his boring, pale blue eyes. How