THE MOUTH OF THE SOUTH (AND THE GOD WHO TOOK IT OVER)

They used to call me the mouth of the south.

And not in a charming, front-porch-sweet-tea kind of way.

No—

I was sharp. Quick. Cutting.

I could dress truth up in just enough righteousness to make it sound holy…

while it carried the weight of judgment, pride, and pain underneath.

I didn’t just speak words.

I wielded them.

And the wildest part?

I thought I was right.

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Scripture says in James that the tongue is a fire.

A restless evil.

Full of deadly poison.

It says no human being can tame it.

And for most of my life, I read that like information—

not revelation.

Because I believed I could tame mine.

I just needed more discipline.

More scripture.

More control.

But control was the problem.

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I write to you with a mustard seed of faith—

planted in the depths of my bitter end.

May it grow into a forest of righteousness for His glory.

Because I didn’t find God in my strength.

I found Him when mine ran out.

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For most of my life, I thought I knew who I was.

And if I didn’t—

the world was more than happy to tell me.

Labels became language.

Language became identity.

Identity became the cage.

As a child:

special, small, ugly, adopted, pianist, God-lover.

As a teenager:

rebel, athlete, ugly duckling turned swan, feisty.

As a young adult:

mother, wife, creative, sober, abolitionist, believer.

In my 40s:

alcoholic, adulterer, liar, manipulator, attention-seeker, narcissist.

I wore every word like it belonged to me.

And then…

I died.

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Not physically.

But everything I thought I was—collapsed.

Like Paul the Apostle on the road,

blinded by a light he couldn’t argue with…

I was met by Truth.

Not the kind you quote—

the kind that exposes.

The kind that doesn’t just correct your words—

it silences them.

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Because here’s what I learned:

The tongue can’t be tamed

because it was never meant to be managed.

It was meant to be surrendered.

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All those years, I carried Jesus the way people carry a Bible.

Close enough to quote.

Not close enough to transform.

I spoke Him.

I wrote Him.

I built things in His name.

But I didn’t know Him.

Not in the place where words are born.

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And when the end came—

When I stopped pretending…

stopped performing…

stopped believing in my own ability to be “good”…

That’s when something terrifying happened.

I lost control of my mouth.

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Not in chaos.

In surrender.

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There are moments now…

Where I go to speak—

and I can’t.

Where words that used to roll off my tongue with ease…

get caught somewhere deeper.

And something else comes out.

Something softer.

Cleaner.

Truer.

Not rehearsed.

Not reactive.

Given.

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“I plead the fifth.”

That’s what I say now sometimes.

Not because I’m hiding.

But because I finally understand:

Silence can be obedience.

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Because when the tongue belongs to me—

it divides, defends, destroys.

But when it belongs to Him—

It heals.

It reveals.

It speaks life.

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Scripture says,

“Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”

So God didn’t just come for my words.

He came for the well they were drawing from.

And when He changed the source—

the sound changed too.

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I used to think proof of God was something I had to argue.

Now I know:

The evidence is in what no longer comes out of me.

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The restraint I didn’t manufacture.

The kindness I didn’t plan.

The silence I didn’t choose.

The words… I couldn’t have written on my own.

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That’s how I know He’s real.

Because the mouth of the south—

finally learned…

She was never meant to control her tongue.

She was meant to give it back.

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And now?

I don’t speak to be heard.

I speak when I’m given something worth saying.

And when I’m not—

I rest my case.