Shame was a language I learned early, right along with how to say “please” and “thank you.” There was an unspoken etiquette we learned growing up in the Southern United States. The tea should be sweet. You should address people older than you as “ma’am” and “sir.” I knew the taste of collard greens and banana pudding, as well as the proper use of the phrase, “bless her heart” to camouflage your disdain for someone in a prayer. We were known for our hospitality and kindness. We were always polite and proper—to people’s faces. Appearances mattered, often more than anything else.
I spent a good bit of my childhood being lulled into summer evening bliss by the rhythmic rocking of wooden chairs and the tinkle of the wind chimes hung on a long porch. My sister and I spent days down by the creek, running as fast as we could past our grandpa’s beehives. Our hands were stained from the red clay and black muscadine juice, calloused from shelling peas and stirring pots of beans.
We were never taught to talk about all our failings or about the healing we can find when we say it out loud.
If you stepped outside the cultural expectations, you would be the talk of the town. One thing I never learned was the language of grace. We were never taught to talk about all our failings or about the healing we can find when we say it out loud. We didn’t know what life could be like when we admitted our mistakes and asked for help. We just knew to sweep the dark corners of our lives under the rug, afraid someone would find out and whisper about us, too.
We just knew to sweep the dark corners of our lives under the rug, afraid someone would find out and whisper about us, too.
When I started attending church in my teens, I wrapped a new layer of right actions around me like a bullet-proof vest. I knew just what to say and do (and what and who to avoid) to appear like the best Christian. We talked all about a personal relationship with Christ, but what I really gained was another set of standards I needed to uphold.
Years later, after lapses that certainly made me the talk of all the good folks I knew in my church days, I longed for Jesus but I wasn’t so sure about his people. I knew I was a horrible mess and I was hungry for someone that could offer me more than appearances. I’ll never forget the kind people that poured into hurting students in the college ministry where I finally discovered a different dialect. They replaced the language of failure, shame, and secrecy with words like vulnerability, lament, mercy, and restoration.
I still struggle every day with worrying about what other people think, with deep-ingrained feelings of guilt that I’m never enough. When I even consider other people may be talking about me in a negative way, I can feel my face flush and my pulse race. I get quiet around those with whom I’m not sure where I stand. I know the way it works here (and maybe everywhere). I know how people you think are near to you will smile when you’re in the room and gossip about you on their own porches.
But I’ve done enough healing work with God at this point to be able to pull myself back from the ledge most days. For years now I’ve prayed with the simple word “beloved” as my anchor that brings me back to the truth. “Your identity comes not from what you do, but from who you are in God,” I remind myself with the words of the author, Michelle Derusha. “Once you understand at the core of your being that you are truly God’s beloved—delighted in and cherished by God—everything else falls into place.”
There’s still not much I love more than front-porch sitting. These days I sit there quietly most mornings and some evenings. It’s my favorite place to sit and talk with the One who speaks to me in our mother tongue, the one we knew before there were words of shame. There I lay out all the good and bad and find nothing but love. As the fireflies dance down our gravel drive and whippoorwills sing in the trees, I hold onto the words that Jesus whispers to my heart—the language of hope.