Shame Disarmed

disarm: take a weapon or weapons away from (a person, force, or country); remove the fuse from (a bomb), making it safe; deprive of the power to injure or hurt. (New Oxford American Dictionary)

I am heavily armed at all times. My weapons are both visible and concealed, and I am careful to wear them at all times. Over time I have collected quite an arsenal.

Performance is my nuclear weapon, carefully engineered to obliterate rejection and disapproval across vast distances.

Coming in a close second in power is a highly dependable weapon called Control. Its accuracy can be counted on and it rarely misses its mark, unless the target moves by forces beyond my control.

The next weapon might surprise you. Called Good, it is one of my oldest. I first began coveting it when I was only a small child. I went all the way to Africa to acquire it, and the price was dear. Over the years I have polished its smooth contours until it shines like gold. I take excellent care of it, for I carry it over my heart.

These are my three most important weapons, but I have many more. My weapons keep me safe and secure. They hide me, keep me from really being seen.

Lately, I have become concerned, disquieted. It seems there is a plot to disarm me of my weapons. The Author of the plot is very clever; he sends children to do the work.

Nothing disarms me like the innocent questions of my children. They are curious about my own childhood, the Time of Darkness I have spent decades healing from, escaping from, overcoming.

This morning on the way to school, in a short span of only ten minutes, my daughter asked me several key questions about when I was a little girl.

Why didn’t your Mommy drive you to school?

Were you rich since she worked so much?

Why did he adopt you? He didn’t have to.

After glancing at her sincere, sweet face in the rearview mirror, I looked down only to realize my weapons lay disassembled, cast off, at my feet. She had removed them while I was gasping for breath, trying to find words to answer her questions about the darkness.

Weak and trembling, I began to cry.

So small I felt. So exposed. So unsafe.

Without my weapons, do I exist?

Am I a dream, a mirage?

Can I live real? Really, truly, sincerely real, before those who love me?

Those who don’t?

I can see people flinch when I’m real. Some, their eyes fill with tears, growing red around the rims. Yet others seem to cringe inside, their eyes reflecting fear for themselves and the shame they too secretly carry.

My daughter, though. My daughter.

She did none of these. Instead, she got out of the back, came to the front passenger seat, and put her arms around me.

I love you so much, Mommy. Big blue eyes, filled with compassion, looking into mine.

Jesus removes our shame and gives honor instead. And today, He used a child.

Lord, I will choose every day to face the shame and confront its lies with Truth. Take my weapons and cover me with Yourself instead. Thank you for pursuing me and never letting me forget how much You love me. Amen.

TWEETABLES

Jesus disarms our shame with honor. #honorshame #hope #bereal (Click to Tweet)