Drawing the line

When I was twelve years old, I took voice lessons from a card-carrying southern belle separated from the coast of the Carolinas to plant roots in Richmond, Kentucky and nurture the vocal talents of local teenagers. Her name was Deborah Deck and she was a legend; everything about her was a dynamic representation of her low country beginnings, from her dramatic coal black updo to her melodious southern drawl and the way she whispered words she deemed “inappropriate” for public consumption. In an afternoon lesson, she was instructing me on prioritizing my talent with daily practice, as she politely outed a former pupil for being, [whispered] “prayg-nant” as part of her metaphorical illustration. I never forgot that about her, the way she protected the propriety of a conversation by administering a requisite “hush” to those words she thought were beyond an unspoken boundary of lady-like language. Some topics were just not meant to be talked so loudly about.

Lucky for you, that is one voice lesson never fully imparted onto me. There’s not much I won’t speak candidly about, words are far from whispered in my presence. I am what some would call an “open book” when it comes to my own personal experience as seen in the vulnerability of the last several blog posts.

So when things got potentially “Deborah-Deck-hush-worthy” at a recent Monday night bible study gathering, I ignored the practice of my vocal mentor and spoke confidently my feelings around what it meant to “draw the line” in reference to sexual ethics.

Got some of you clutching your pearls now, for sure, I said the “s” word. Let me put you at ease before I lose some of you. We’re not gonna talk about anyone’s sex life here. What we are gonna talk about is shame. How I let it bind me and my ability to love the way I really wanted to. And in glorious contrast, how trading that shame for the less wounding feeling of regret, I was set free. It was striking on that Monday night study when I realized what I had done somewhere along the way. At some point, maybe many points, I had figured out the difference between the two, and fostered better line-drawers in my two teenage daughters, saving them from similar shame.

One of my favorite women thinkers of our time, Brene Brown, defines shame as “an intensely painful feeling or experience, believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love, belonging and connection.” My savior promises me that there is nothing that can make me unlovable or unworthy of connection to Him. I believe that now, and regret that my past self didn’t.

“Fear not, for you will not be ashamed; be not confounded, for you will not be disgraced; for you will forget the shame of your youth…”

Isaiah 54:4

My first two years as a wife were a less-than-stellar representation of a blood-bought, forgiven and adundantly loved child of God. I felt unworthy to be married to someone as loving and loyal as Reagan Taylor. I constantly doubted his devotion, repugned his admiration and often shuttered at his touch. Mostly because I had failed to draw the line of a different kind in my past relationships, though at the time I wasn’t identifying that as the source. I did, however, have an awareness that the overnight bag of shame I carried with me was affecting the way I related to my lovable husband, and I didn’t know how to let go of it.

There’s a line in an old Reba McEntire song,

“He was good at business, but there was business left to do. He never said he loved me, guess he thought I knew.”

I’m more certain now that that’s how it all started for me, with a disjointed relationship or lack thereof with my Dad. He was good at the business of providing financially for his family. What he struggled with was honoring his wife and letting his daughters know that he loved them. And that his disregard for our mother did not reflect his feelings for us. When I was old enough to be both curious AND brave, I asked him why he cheated on my mother and ruptured our family. I told him that I deserved to know the why behind his choices, especially now that his “choice” was referring to me as her “future daughter.” He was instantly furious with me and let it be known just how much; I know now that his reaction was his own guilt and shame being projected onto his little girl, maybe on accident. Nevertheless, it stuck; I carried that shame with me for too many years to count, into my self-esteem bank, my discernment meter and my propensity to love abusive men.

When I was sixteen I fell in love with someone who would model the behavior I had been conditioned to accept from others by my father. To be fair, he was a kid himself. He was charming, affectionate and wounded in his own parent’s war as well. He was also hot headed, emotionally disconnected and cutting with his words. I surrendered my heart to him and in return I became painfully doubtful of my own judgement, I questioned the loyalty of others and was ashamed of my body. And the worst part? I felt like I deserved it. I let it devour me for 3 years and linger for even longer. Even after that relationship was long over, the shame shrapnel remained embedded in me. If Reagan Taylor hadn’t been so doggone patient, I might have lost myself forever in that relationship aftershock and repeated the pattern with others like it. Reagan rescued me, truly, with his kindness, his friendship, and his unrelenting faith in the love and mercy of Jesus Christ: a love that inevitably spilled over onto me until I could feel it for myself.

He did more than just love me. He showed me God’s love. The kind of love that “removes our transgressions from us,” “does not repay us according to our iniquities,” but helps us “be renewed in the spirit of our minds, put on a new self, created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness.” Twenty-five years into marriage and I’m more in love with my husband now than I was when we said, “I do” and all of me believes that’s because of the work of the Holy Spirit in me that started when I decided to draw a new line, of what I would accept from others and what was acceptable to believe about myself.

Don’t be too impressed, the work is still happening. In the crafting of the words on this very page I am taking an active step in naming the shame, knowing it was what held me back and putting it where it belongs-behind me. Feels good to “say it out loud,” and bring it to light, if for no other reason but in hopes that it makes somebody else feel ok about doing the same.

I’m not proclaiming we all shout our personal tragedies into the social stratosphere, though there are plenty of people that do. But if shameful silence breeds suffering and fosters feelings of self-loathing, wouldn’t we reap the opposite effect by speaking the words out loud that hold us hostage? If not to a close friend, confidant, pastor or parent, how about just to God? How about simply humbling ourselves to the power of the Holy Spirit and letting Him bear the burden of our shame? I mean, let’s be honest—he’s done it already and He promises he’ll do it over and over again. And the best part? He doesn’t like us less for it.

Beth Moore said it awesomely in a study once, in a discussion about God’s love and His wrath. She said, “at times He disapproves, disciplines and redirects us…but hates us?” Never, “not on His son’s life.” He loves us. Period. So why should we let circumstances in our past trap us in a cycle of shame, feeling unloved and unworthy?

“So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him.”

1John 4:16

I’m not ashamed of the poor line drawing skills of my past. In His grace and truth I have come to know true love, for myself and for others. And I feel immeasurably blessed by that.