Garment of Praise

I first noticed it in the shower, and my stomach sank as thoughts of God’s punishment flooded my mind. Having no idea about anything medical, I figured that a vaginal cyst was a clear consequence for what I was allowing, and that I would probably die from this dreaded but well-deserved disease. I didn’t know what to do, nor did I see any way to tell my mom and get the help I needed, as telling her would surely betray more than I could afford, and likely risk her asking too many questions. I waited and worried for a few days, and then finally decided that my only possible source of help was my abuser, as he already knew my secret. And so I told him what I had found, and my conclusion that it was God’s judgment of me. I remember him laughing at my needless concern, and telling me that I had been right to tell him, and that he, of course, would take care of it. I sat at his desk as he made a phone call to a doctor friend of his who worked at a medical clinic in the area. They caught up for a few minutes, filling one another in on their lives and careers, and then he told her the reason for his call, explaining “there is a girl from my youth group who has been doing some experimenting sexually and has run into some trouble. She has come to me for help, and begged me not to tell her parents. I have agreed to help her, and am wondering if you would be willing to see her at the clinic discreetly. The church has cash set aside for things of this nature, and so no official documents need be created.” She agreed to help, and then they set the appointment time for the next day. Sitting in a chair across from his desk as he chatted with his friend, I remember feeling betrayed by the way he talked about me, and so filled with shame knowing that what he said about me all seemed true.

As we rode in his car on the way to the clinic, I felt so little in the front seat of his car, and dread grew as I anticipated walking out the role of the slutty kid in the youth group who had “run into some trouble” in the midst of her promiscuity, and had come to her youth pastor for help. I tried my best to be invisible, as we walked in, he so full of pastoral purpose with his promiscuous sheep hunched over behind him. I imagine that he and the doctor exchanged knowing, disapproving glances as they considered my lifestyle choices, and both felt better about themselves for having come to my rescue. When my name was called, I was led back to an examination room, having no idea what to expect. The room smelled of chemicals, and felt cold and sterile. I thought about how my mom had always been with me when I had gone to the doctor before, and how I wished this visit could be different in so many ways. I wadded up my clothes, and put on the little robe they gave me. As I tied the belt as tightly as I could, it felt as if I was cinching as well my identity as the slutty kid brought in by the righteous super-pastor. When the doctor came in she greeted me with a smile that communicated compassion and pity tinged with disapproval, and began the examination. As I laid on the table submitting to the exam, I felt bathed in shame, and could barely speak above a whisper as she asked questions like “do you understand what you are giving away by having sex? You are still a child. Your body is not ready for this. Is there anything you want to tell me or ask me about?” At no other time have I felt so alone or misunderstood. For the briefest moment I considered blurting out the truth, but I figured that she would likely believe my pastor over me if it was his word against mine. Lying there, marinating in what the doctor thought me to be, I wondered how much her impression of me really differed from what I was? I just shook my head and made sure our eyes didn’t meet. She told me that the cyst, caused by sexual activity, would heal, and left me to dress and head back to my waiting pastor. I robotically pulled on my clothing, pushed through the door to the waiting room, and kept walking through the front doors into the parking lot. As soon as he came out, I got into the car and we rode wordlessly home. We never spoke of the phone call he made, the story he told, or the appointment itself. The events of that day were hastily packed away as some of my most painful memories, only to surface during trigger events like prenatal exams and baby delivery. When the memories came, I would wince as the shame pressed in, close my eyes, and will it away.

Even then I knew that I was not likely “willing the shame away,” but rather only driving it deeper within myself. When I began to pursue healing in earnest, I could see the heaviness of shame weaving through the very fiber of who I was. Shame expresses itself in many ways, and one of the ways it takes shape in me is in silence, which can make asking for and receiving help difficult. In college, during the years in which my abuser stalked me, I went to my college counseling center because I was desperate for help. I saw a counselor weekly that year, and spent those hours sitting with him in virtual silence. I just couldn’t speak of any of it aloud.

Throughout my adult life I have, and still do, struggle against silence. I had to start by journaling my thoughts and then reading them aloud to get used to hearing my own voice speak of such things! My comfort zone of silence makes praying and journaling natural and easy, but it makes joining others in community and getting my story out of myself difficult. I have many times prayed and journaled, asking God to show me where the silence comes from. God brought me back to that day at the clinic when I felt so alone and misunderstood, and, in the face of the doctor’s invitation to talk to her, made the decision to remain silent rather than blurt out the truth, because I was just a slutty kid and who would believe me anyway, and so what good would it do to say anything at all? Experience tells me that a lie believed and left in place sends roots into every corner of our beings, and we must be vigilant to discover lies within us, and ask God to remove them and replace them with his Truth. And so I thanked God for showing me the lie that I believed about myself, and asked him to remove the belief that I am dirty and not to be believed or even heard. I then asked Him to show me how he saw me, so that the lie could be replaced with Truth. God brought me to Isaiah 61, and showed me how he has removed my spirit of despair, or my paper robe of shame and silence, for a garment of praise, and from under its covering, I am as white as snow, and free to write, and speak, and sing for Him!

Our freedom has been paid for by Jesus, and we have only to step out of our cells, because the door stands open and he stands before us with his arm extended. Jesus can speak and show us Truth in an instant, and yet it may take a lifetime to allow it to penetrate all of the dark and hidden places within us. There are days when my soul runs and skips in the freedom that is mine because of God's grace, and it is nothing short of exhilarating! And then on days like today, I know that I stand at the opening to my cave of silence, drawn by its safety and familiarity, torn between what I know to be true and how to cope in the moment. And so all I can do is be honest with God about where I am, and ask him to save me from myself and the lies that I believe. God is faithful and ever true, and He is gracious to always be with us, whether it be as we skip and run in freedom, or stand silently in the opening of or even deep within whatever cave or cell beckons us.

When you feel heaviness or shame or silence, I invite you to ask God to show you the root lie and replace it with his Truth, and then ask him to help you to walk in the freedom that is yours, wherever you find yourself each day! Feel free to post your thoughts or feelings or wonderings.