There are many things we do not know while still living under the veil of innocence. I did not know a woman whose babies died in her womb would labor before giving birth. The pain of standing beside a tiny grave at the tender age of twenty-one. I didn’t know about living this life in the same skin, as a very changed me and loving the boy beside me, both of us broken. The silence. Silence so thick you cannot breathe.
The moment the nurse answered my whimper of aching arms with a cold vase placed abruptly on my lap, wheeling me passed the nursery full of crying babies, I learned. I felt the first weight of it draped across my young shoulders. The cloak of shame, whispering, Don’t you dare be an inconvenience. Cover this. No one wants to see your broken.
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I suppose if we dig even deeper, passed what makes sense with our minds, to the places in our psyche we rarely graze for fear of what lies beneath our layers, we would find an even more harsh accusation. Where does the shame come from anyway? Are the loss and pain of grief not enough? Why does shame drape over us, heavy and dark? Is the healing and the breathing not enough without finding the strength to emerge from the heavy, dark garment of shame?
Buried beneath, the ugliest of questions. The wounded often carry the most shame. And, why…why is that?
“You’ve already been enough of an inconvenience. Pain in the place of joy for your family. Your body failed. You brought broken babies into this world. And, you are now broken. No one wants to see any of it. The least you can do, is cover it up, keep it to yourself.”
“If you speak of your broken places, someone may think…
…you are weak, a victim, looking for pity, wallowing in grief.”
When none of that is true, why do we believe it? Why are we held captive by it, gripped and covered and silenced by it? And, why, when we are finally ready to stop wearing the cloak of shame (that never fit right, anyway), do others react in such strong ways, sometimes with opposition, or ridicule, misunderstanding, or lack of compassion?
Can we muster the courage, brave rising from the deep…can we find enough to lift the cloak of shame, to peer out from the layers that have become a familiar covering, a place to hide….falsely offering shelter? It took years for me to find my way out. To find the brave, enough to just speak the names of my children aloud. And, even more years, not to run back to hide under that tattered garment, apologetically, when faced with scorn or averted eyes.
Shame whispers, “You’re a disappointment. A blemish.”
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Honestly, I’m still finding my way out, still tuning my ear to listen to the Voice of truth, in place of the crippling lies shame whispers in the dark. Part of healing is to shed the weight of a cloak that isn’t meant to fit. There is nothing shameful about speaking their names. Or living beautifully broken. Or walking with a limp.
In fact, I would venture even further to say, that you are courageous, not weak.
Victorious, not defeated.
Beautiful in your broken, not blemished beyond repair.
You are not the same, but you are even more precious, made of the kind of tilled fertilized soil that grows a tall, strong, deeply rooted plant.
You have value and worth…and so do the sweet babies who left a hole of missing in your heart.
Lift your head, and look out from beneath that clumsy garment stifling you. Pull it down from your face. Let your hair fall free. Feel it slide off your shoulders and fall to the ground. Leave it there. And, walk away…limp and all.
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