We all need connection, but the universal thing that keeps us from it is SHAME and FEAR. (The Power of Vulnerability, Ted Talk by Brene Brown)
From my 2009 Journal. I just finished reading Shame Lifter by Marilyn Hontz, my former pastor’s wife. She says shame was the undercurrent for all things she did or felt in life.
I, too, admit to feeling an undercurrent in my heart—the shame of inadequacy—a restlessness in my spirit that I’m hiding. It happens when I feel my mind slipping away from me—when I can no longer remember a name or recall a common word or someone tells me they had dinner at my house and I’m surprised because I’ve forgotten, or I’m asked to speak in front of a group. I feel so out of the culture, out of sync, unintelligent, afraid I’ll say something dumb.
The roots go all the way back to my Grade 6 furlough when I had to ask a friend what a word meant—a common English word that was never used in my boarding school in Africa. And even after her explanation, I misunderstood. Here’s how it went:
Someone had scrawled some words on the blackboard of the teacher next door: “Mr. Hart cut a fart.” I found Billie Bean, an African-American classmate, pulled her aside under the fire escape stairs, and asked her what a fart was.
First, I felt her hesitation and embarrassment at having to explain this bodily function. There were inadequate synonyms in sixth grade to explain, and so she pointed to her derriere and said, “It’s what comes out of there.” Okay, now I got the picture: someone was suggesting that Mr. Hart had taken a knife and cut in half a piece of excrement. Why in the world would Mr. Hart do that? And what would possess a student to scrawl that on the blackboard?
When Billie discovered my misunderstanding of this American idiom, I do not remember how she corrected it, but I believe that’s where the shame of inadequacy became planted. I believed the “should”—I should have understood—but even more I could sense her discomfort and the subject felt dirty.
Jesus is my shame-lifter. Being culturally ignorant was not my fault, and I didn’t have to take on Billie’s embarrassment. Perhaps I became the more intelligent one since I now knew that word in two languages!
From my 2015 Journal. I grew up in a boarding school where we had nightly devotions together as a group in the girls’ dorm. One particular spinster Auntie (as we called our dorm mothers) got frustrated one night with our continuing chatter and instructed us to all be silent. She began to lead us in a chorus, and I leaned over to the girl next to me and whispered, “Listen.” I wanted her to hear me sing the counter melody.
The word enough comes to mind—I’m always trying to earn God’s love. Where is this insidious lie buried in my heart? Somewhere in childhood perhaps. It was the culture of my boarding school to always strive for perfection. Getting anything less than 100 was unacceptable. But I discover it’s not from the teacher; it’s coming from within. Why? What do I believe about myself if I fall short? That I didn’t try enough, study enough, work hard enough? When I make “less than” I feel . . .
I may refuse to listen to your words because they heap shame on me, but I find it’s an uphill battle to sever the ties with them. I am determined to climb this mountain even if I have to do it alone, but the weariness of the battle gets to me.
I see a problem. It needs fixing. Then fix it already! What is that inner drive? Is it temperament? Genetics? Wounding? This drive can accomplish good things, or it can be a catalyst for ill. The thing is, when I see it in myself, I try to fix it. When I see it in others, I want to fix it myself or encourage them to fix it. I wonder: Why would anyone want to continue to wallow in the mire when there’s an answer for their pain?
From my 2010 Journal. In my counseling training, I heard one instructor say, “If something doesn’t work, try something else. Keep trying, keep working. Doing something is better than nothing, and it’s all good.”
Grief from experiencing a loss is typically truth-based pain. There is a void, an empty place at the table, a loss of relationship with a deceased loved one, a distance from someone who has moved away or a longing for a thing, such as a childhood home. This type of grief must be fully felt in order to be released. Sometimes, however, truth-based pain gets muddled with lies, such as “I could have prevented my loved one from dying” or “It’s my fault Mom and Dad got a divorce.” Christ experienced truth-based pain. It was real. It was heart-wrenching. It was agonizing. But He never believed a lie.
In the Pursuit of Peace 