Hope in the face of shame

As I laid on my youth pastor's floor that Sunday evening, when I should have been long ago delivered to the safety of my home, what his hands and mouth were doing to me seemed, all at once, overwhelmingly real and yet fuzzy, and far away. The sensations in my body were unfamiliar and confusing, and I felt frozen in time and space as my mind and body responded to what it was experiencing. At first the sensations rushed in, but then I was able to pull back my awareness until I was at a more tolerable distance, almost as if I was watching what was happening, instead of experiencing it. When he was done, as he backed away and began to stand up I knew that if I looked at his face, in his eyes, that it would all be somehow more real and concrete, and so I sat up and remained on the floor waiting, my eyes fixed on the wall in front of me. He went through the house straightening a few things, and then broke the silence telling me that it was time to go. I stood up on shaky legs, mumbled, and moved towards the back door, being careful not to allow my eyes to meet his. The church van was mercifully dark and quiet until we arrived at my home, at which time I robotically thanked him for the ride, and walked up to my front door and, with an unsteady hand, turned the knob and walked in. As I entered the chatter and busyness of my family, wrapping up the weekend and getting ready for bed, it took me a minute to realize that, to them, it was a night like any other. I quickly said my goodnights and hurried to bed, longing to end the day as quickly as possible. Numb, and beyond tears, I closed my eyes and succumbed to the welcomed escape of sleep.

When I awoke the next day, I jumped out of bed and began my daily routine. I hurried into the bathroom, intent on claiming it before my older brother, and turned on the water for my shower. As I undressed, the memory of what had happened suddenly dropped from wherever it had lain, suspended, and my stomach fell and began to ache. As the images ran across my mind before I had a chance to stop them, I felt my face tighten as I winced with shame, and then grief settled in as I remembered that it had really happened, and that everything was different now. I moved robotically through the rest of my morning routine, and entered the welcomed distraction of the mundane. I greeted friends at school and turned in homework, took notes and doodled on my folders, but every once in a while there would come an unexpected lull during which my mind would still long enough to remember, and in the moment before I chased the thoughts and memories away, I would wince in shame and hold my stomach as the ache intensified.

For me, shame is often accompanied by a wince, as memories of abuse come to mind, but in addition to the sudden attacks of shame, I also carry shame in other more subtle ways. Shame comes in many forms and has many faces. Shame is an unidentifiable heaviness, a muzzle that quiets, and a cloud of memories that pulls your gaze away. Shame is a distorter that makes truth seem like a lie, and lies seem like truth. Shame is a filter, through which love, and grace and tenderness cannot pour, and shame is a shade pulled so that while in the midst of many who care, one can feel totally and utterly alone. Shame is the small but penetrating voice that reminds you time and time again, that what you have said, done, not done, or allowed to be done makes you unworthy of being loved. The face of shame can be a body riddled by overeating, baggy clothes that hide, busyness that keeps others at a distance, biting humor that deflects kindness, harmful addictions, or perhaps a deep, pervasive sense of worthlessness or sadness or despair. Whatever its form and face, shame can so encapsulate a little girls’ heart, that she is no longer able to feel and experience tenderness and love, and as a result she can not even conceive of the only love and grace that can bring her heart freedom- the love of her Abba, her Daddy.

Even though I had asked God to show me the truth of who he is and the truth of who I am, there was a kryptonite layer of shame encapsulating my heart that would not allow that truth to penetrate the places that needed it the most. I knew in my head that I needed God to help me heal from those memories that made me cringe and wince in shame, and yet the shame was so heavy that I couldn’t go there. I was meeting with a woman who was listening to and praying with me, and yet I was stuck, feeling pinned down by the weight of the shame that I couldn’t seem to shake or reason my way out from under. Finally, when she felt I was armed with enough truth about who God is, she helped me bring God into the shame. I had for many weeks been practicing the discipline of quieting myself before the Lord in prayer, and so I got quiet and told God that I was going to go back to the room in which the pastor first abused me, and that I wanted Jesus to come. I was amazed even in my prayer of how much detail I remembered about the room, as I entered the memory. In my prayer, I laid down on the floor of that room, and as the abuse began, though I had feared that he wouldn’t come, Jesus walked into the room. I could barely look at him as I was sure that he was going to cringe and look away when he saw what I was allowing, but instead, Jesus’ eyes locked onto mine the minute he entered the room and saw me. With his eyes fixed on mine the whole way, he walked over to me, got down on the floor next to me, and took my face in his hands, and just held my face while tears streamed down his. Not for a single second while in that room did Jesus’ eyes stray from mine. He didn’t cringe or wince at what I was allowing. Jesus had eyes only for me, and grief for what I was experiencing. As his hands touched my face, and his eyes filled mine, he had no agenda other than loving and attending to me. As Jesus poured his love and approval over me, the lies that had anchored the shame onto me began to shift and loosen its hold. I felt the hope of knowing that his love and grace and healing did really, actually apply even to me, and that when he sees me, he can’t take his eyes off of me, and that he longs to fill my gaze with his, and, through his touch, impart wholeness and healing.

Where do you cringe and wince with shame? God can't wait for you to invite him into those places, so that he can bring his love and his healing.