I remember staying at my aunt’s summer house in Florida during the 1980s. It was a charming place with a large swimming pool surrounded by lush greenery and vibrant flowers. The air was thick with the scent of blooming jasmine and the sound of cicadas filled the warm evenings.

One day, my cousin Kathy and I, both around the same age, chased her brother George out of the swimming pool, using some choice words. George, a mischievous boy with a knack for getting into trouble, had been splashing us relentlessly. His laughter echoed through the garden, mingling with the rustling leaves.

We yelled at him, calling him a “little brat” and “annoying pest,” and even threw in a few expletives, which made him scramble out of the pool, laughing and taunting us as he ran away. The sun glinted off the water, casting playful reflections on the surrounding foliage.

We continued playing with our two friends – Olivia, a girl with curly brown hair and a mischievous smile, and Mia, who had straight blonde hair and a quiet demeanor – but about 15 minutes later, my aunt showed up holding a flip flop. The atmosphere shifted as her stern presence cast a shadow over our fun.

My aunt, a tall woman with a stern expression, wore a floral dress and a wide-brimmed hat. She had a no-nonsense demeanor and a commanding presence. As a devout Christian, she was deeply offended by our language. Her eyes, usually warm, were now cold and disapproving.

In front of Olivia and Mia, my aunt made Kathy and me bend over, hands on our knees. She raised the flip flop high above her head and brought it down with a loud smack on our behinds. The sting was immediate and sharp, causing us to yelp in pain. She didn’t stop there; she continued to spank us, each strike more forceful than the last, ensuring we felt the full brunt of her displeasure. The sound of the flip flop striking echoed through the garden, a stark contrast to the earlier laughter.

Afterwards, she left us there doing a dance in pain while crying our eyes out. The tears streamed down our faces, mingling with the pool water still clinging to our skin.

Then, she gathered us all around and began to lecture us about the importance of using respectful language. She said, “Words have power, and using sinful words can harm not just others, but also your own soul. As Christians, we must strive to speak with kindness and respect, reflecting the love and grace of God in our words and actions.” Her voice was firm, yet there was an underlying tone of care and concern.

After the lecture, my aunt took Kathy and me to the bathroom. She made us wash our mouths out with soap and water, scrubbing thoroughly to cleanse our tongues of the foul language we had used. The taste of the soap was bitter, a stark reminder of our transgression.

Her words, stern and filled with conviction, left a lasting impression on us. We knew we had crossed a line and vowed to be more mindful of our language in the future. The lesson, though harsh, was one we would carry with us for years to come, a testament to the power of words and the importance of respect.