December 28 – Say What?
I once heard someone mess up the Serenity Prayer in a meeting and say, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot say, the courage to say the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Everyone laughed—but it stuck with me. Close enough to the real thing to hit home. Because when I’m angry or frustrated, this prayer is now my go-to, and what it really reminds me of is to watch my mouth.
Words matter. They land hard. Some of them don’t bounce—they stick for years. And when I’m running on untreated alcoholic thinking—delusional, selfish, convinced my wants are urgent and righteous—I can get sharp. I can get cruel. Alcoholics don’t always throw punches; sometimes we just throw sentences and walk away like nothing happened. Meanwhile, someone else is still carrying it.
This prayer slows me down. It reminds me that not everything I feel needs to be said, not everything I think is true, and not every moment is mine to control. Acceptance doesn’t just apply to people and situations—it applies to silence, restraint, and letting God handle outcomes I’m tempted to manage with words.
Sometimes the most spiritual thing I can do is shut up long enough for the wisdom part to catch up.
When you’re irritated or fired up, what helps you pause before saying something you might not be able to take back?
I once heard someone mess up the Serenity Prayer in a meeting and say, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot say, the courage to say the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Everyone laughed—but it stuck with me. Close enough to the real thing to hit home. Because when I’m angry or frustrated, this prayer is now my go-to, and what it really reminds me of is to watch my mouth.
Words matter. They land hard. Some of them don’t bounce—they stick for years. And when I’m running on untreated alcoholic thinking—delusional, selfish, convinced my wants are urgent and righteous—I can get sharp. I can get cruel. Alcoholics don’t always throw punches; sometimes we just throw sentences and walk away like nothing happened. Meanwhile, someone else is still carrying it.
This prayer slows me down. It reminds me that not everything I feel needs to be said, not everything I think is true, and not every moment is mine to control. Acceptance doesn’t just apply to people and situations—it applies to silence, restraint, and letting God handle outcomes I’m tempted to manage with words.
Sometimes the most spiritual thing I can do is shut up long enough for the wisdom part to catch up.
When you’re irritated or fired up, what helps you pause before saying something you might not be able to take back?
I once heard someone mess up the Serenity Prayer in a meeting and say, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot say, the courage to say the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Everyone laughed—but it stuck with me. Close enough to the real thing to hit home. Because when I’m angry or frustrated, this prayer is now my go-to, and what it really reminds me of is to watch my mouth.
Words matter. They land hard. Some of them don’t bounce—they stick for years. And when I’m running on untreated alcoholic thinking—delusional, selfish, convinced my wants are urgent and righteous—I can get sharp. I can get cruel. Alcoholics don’t always throw punches; sometimes we just throw sentences and walk away like nothing happened. Meanwhile, someone else is still carrying it.
This prayer slows me down. It reminds me that not everything I feel needs to be said, not everything I think is true, and not every moment is mine to control. Acceptance doesn’t just apply to people and situations—it applies to silence, restraint, and letting God handle outcomes I’m tempted to manage with words.
Sometimes the most spiritual thing I can do is shut up long enough for the wisdom part to catch up.
When you’re irritated or fired up, what helps you pause before saying something you might not be able to take back?
I once heard someone mess up the Serenity Prayer in a meeting and say, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot say, the courage to say the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Everyone laughed—but it stuck with me. Close enough to the real thing to hit home. Because when I’m angry or frustrated, this prayer is now my go-to, and what it really reminds me of is to watch my mouth.
Words matter. They land hard. Some of them don’t bounce—they stick for years. And when I’m running on untreated alcoholic thinking—delusional, selfish, convinced my wants are urgent and righteous—I can get sharp. I can get cruel. Alcoholics don’t always throw punches; sometimes we just throw sentences and walk away like nothing happened. Meanwhile, someone else is still carrying it.
This prayer slows me down. It reminds me that not everything I feel needs to be said, not everything I think is true, and not every moment is mine to control. Acceptance doesn’t just apply to people and situations—it applies to silence, restraint, and letting God handle outcomes I’m tempted to manage with words.
Sometimes the most spiritual thing I can do is shut up long enough for the wisdom part to catch up.
When you’re irritated or fired up, what helps you pause before saying something you might not be able to take back?
I once heard someone mess up the Serenity Prayer in a meeting and say, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot say, the courage to say the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Everyone laughed—but it stuck with me. Close enough to the real thing to hit home. Because when I’m angry or frustrated, this prayer is now my go-to, and what it really reminds me of is to watch my mouth.
Words matter. They land hard. Some of them don’t bounce—they stick for years. And when I’m running on untreated alcoholic thinking—delusional, selfish, convinced my wants are urgent and righteous—I can get sharp. I can get cruel. Alcoholics don’t always throw punches; sometimes we just throw sentences and walk away like nothing happened. Meanwhile, someone else is still carrying it.
This prayer slows me down. It reminds me that not everything I feel needs to be said, not everything I think is true, and not every moment is mine to control. Acceptance doesn’t just apply to people and situations—it applies to silence, restraint, and letting God handle outcomes I’m tempted to manage with words.
Sometimes the most spiritual thing I can do is shut up long enough for the wisdom part to catch up.
When you’re irritated or fired up, what helps you pause before saying something you might not be able to take back?
I once heard someone mess up the Serenity Prayer in a meeting and say, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot say, the courage to say the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Everyone laughed—but it stuck with me. Close enough to the real thing to hit home. Because when I’m angry or frustrated, this prayer is now my go-to, and what it really reminds me of is to watch my mouth.
Words matter. They land hard. Some of them don’t bounce—they stick for years. And when I’m running on untreated alcoholic thinking—delusional, selfish, convinced my wants are urgent and righteous—I can get sharp. I can get cruel. Alcoholics don’t always throw punches; sometimes we just throw sentences and walk away like nothing happened. Meanwhile, someone else is still carrying it.
This prayer slows me down. It reminds me that not everything I feel needs to be said, not everything I think is true, and not every moment is mine to control. Acceptance doesn’t just apply to people and situations—it applies to silence, restraint, and letting God handle outcomes I’m tempted to manage with words.
Sometimes the most spiritual thing I can do is shut up long enough for the wisdom part to catch up.
When you’re irritated or fired up, what helps you pause before saying something you might not be able to take back?
I once heard someone mess up the Serenity Prayer in a meeting and say, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot say, the courage to say the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Everyone laughed—but it stuck with me. Close enough to the real thing to hit home. Because when I’m angry or frustrated, this prayer is now my go-to, and what it really reminds me of is to watch my mouth.
Words matter. They land hard. Some of them don’t bounce—they stick for years. And when I’m running on untreated alcoholic thinking—delusional, selfish, convinced my wants are urgent and righteous—I can get sharp. I can get cruel. Alcoholics don’t always throw punches; sometimes we just throw sentences and walk away like nothing happened. Meanwhile, someone else is still carrying it.
This prayer slows me down. It reminds me that not everything I feel needs to be said, not everything I think is true, and not every moment is mine to control. Acceptance doesn’t just apply to people and situations—it applies to silence, restraint, and letting God handle outcomes I’m tempted to manage with words.
Sometimes the most spiritual thing I can do is shut up long enough for the wisdom part to catch up.
When you’re irritated or fired up, what helps you pause before saying something you might not be able to take back?
I once heard someone mess up the Serenity Prayer in a meeting and say, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot say, the courage to say the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Everyone laughed—but it stuck with me. Close enough to the real thing to hit home. Because when I’m angry or frustrated, this prayer is now my go-to, and what it really reminds me of is to watch my mouth.
Words matter. They land hard. Some of them don’t bounce—they stick for years. And when I’m running on untreated alcoholic thinking—delusional, selfish, convinced my wants are urgent and righteous—I can get sharp. I can get cruel. Alcoholics don’t always throw punches; sometimes we just throw sentences and walk away like nothing happened. Meanwhile, someone else is still carrying it.
This prayer slows me down. It reminds me that not everything I feel needs to be said, not everything I think is true, and not every moment is mine to control. Acceptance doesn’t just apply to people and situations—it applies to silence, restraint, and letting God handle outcomes I’m tempted to manage with words.
Sometimes the most spiritual thing I can do is shut up long enough for the wisdom part to catch up.
When you’re irritated or fired up, what helps you pause before saying something you might not be able to take back?
