By Jenna Kruse 
I was a cussing mama. Yes, I was a mom who used four-letter words. And not in the lighthearted, in passing kind of way. They were pointed, in anger, and often in those frustrating moments of mothering young ones.
Out of disgust for my behavior and in an attempt to get the potty mouth out of the girl, I spent an entire day intentionally speechless. Armed with a stack of Post-It notes and a pen, my emotional response was slowed to the rate at which my hand could translate my ugly thoughts onto paper. My fingers lingered over each word as my heart submitted to a gentler way to communicate.
I expected my “Day of Silence” to have lasting effects, yet I still experienced ongoing conflict with my tongue. It often said what I didn’t want it to. Enter the deep-seated belief that I was incapable of change—I’d probably never be able to shake this. I want to have a great relationship with my kids, but I often screw it up. Anybody?
I’d rail my child for leaving a chore half-done. At bedtime, I’d try to communicate the words I had meant to say, apologizing for my lack of self-control and harshness. Still, there were nights we’d both go to bed with a heavy heart.
It was with this guilt-ridden narrative hanging over my motherhood that I entered a weekend-long women’s retreat. As I entered the cafeteria-turned-candlelit-sanctuary on the last night of the retreat, I listened to the founder tell us there would be a unique word sitting at each spot around the tables—their team had intentionally prayed over these words. I made my way to where I had been sitting all weekend—you know, the spot you choose at the beginning of an event and keep sitting at repeatedly as if there is an imaginary name tag there with your name on it.
Now, there would be a physical “name tag” of sorts sitting in front of me at the table. I inhaled all the beauty and anticipation as I proceeded to my spot. I could hardly believe what I saw. Before me was a little white card held up by a tiny clothespin and a sprig of lavender. In beautiful calligraphy, the name tag read “gentle.”
All the women marveled at their words with smiles and laughter. But for me, this wasn’t a lighthearted moment. This was a God moment—a love letter from a God who romances through seeing and knowing.
He knows my deepest heart longing, and He’s speaking into it. He knows the names I give myself (harsh, hardened, stress-filled failure of a mom), and He gives me a new one—no strings attached. No pre-justification. No earning it or proving myself ahead of time. Just an invitation to walk in it—a future with a new name washed over me.
I am gentle. I am not capable of being gentle; I am gentle. God gives me a new identity, singles out the fruit of the Spirit that I know I can’t accomplish on my own and whispers new life—His life—into my weary mama heart. In Him, I am gentle. God speaks into our deepest places of pain and breathes a new reality.
To know I have done nothing worthy of this new name, but being called it anyway is nice. Thankfully, though, God’s not into blowing us with hot air. He’s interested in something much deeper. His naming is prophecy—a truth that will come to pass in its proper time. His desire to holistically restore our minds, bodies, and souls is ours for the taking. But it requires an openness and willingness to pass through the fire of refinement—hardship born of God builds strength.
It wasn’t until almost a year after God lavished on me an identity of gentleness that I began seeing the fruit play out in my life. When my youngest child’s struggle with a neurodivergent condition led to her participating in harmful behaviors that impacted our whole family, I sought prayer and practical help for my own hurtful reactions to her behaviors.
After receiving a heartfelt prayer from a faithful friend, I could tangibly feel the shield of protection around me and my emotions the next time I encountered this otherwise downward-spiraling behavior. Over the next month, as our daughter’s mental and emotional condition worsened and she threw every arrow at us that she could, my gentleness was tangible.
God was helping me meet my daughter’s time of need with compassion rather than taking her hurtful words and actions personally. His Spirit was gifting me what I couldn’t accomplish in my power alone—emotional regulation. In this undeniable reprieve from my own untamed emotions, I was able to think more clearly, be the parent my daughter needed me to be, and seek the long-term help God was inviting us into.
When God gives a new name, He sees it through. Through the challenges of parenting a high-needs child, God was bringing healing to my own story. He was molding me into the gentle mama I never believed I could be.
So, dear child of God, whatever you struggle to believe about yourself, know this: You are not a failure or too far gone. You are a work in progress. And the one who gives you your identity will accomplish it in his time.
“[be] confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Jesus Christ.” (Philippians 1:6)
by Krista Ward 
by Jordan Morgan 
by Danetta Powell 
