I invited my shame to talk.

I invited my shame to talk.

At first, he looked like a fierce, writhing dragon engulfed in cursed purple flame. Gleaming eyes of red all over his face. Grimy black fangs oozing venom and death. A wicked smile.

And then, he looked like me. But twisted in his expression, glowing red eyes. He kicked me in the stomach and knocked me to the ground. Smiling at me like he enjoyed watching me suffer.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“I want you to die,” the shame-figure spoke coldly.

Then a new figure, bathed in raw light and power, a white flame that blinded and terrified the shame, emerged from the void. Shame fell back, covering his face and writhing, bawling, begging the figure to leave. Fearing that this was his final moments.

The flame died down, becoming a calm, beautiful aura on the figure, clad in a meager white tunic and a purple sash. Dark-skinned, with unkempt black hair. Holes in his hands and feet.

“Peace be with you, Shame,” the voice of my Lord spoke.

Shame uncovered his face. And the face as now a young boy, no more than thirteen years. No red eyes, no wicked grin, but a flushed face covered in snot and tears, as though he had done nothing but weep his whole existence.

“Go away… you’re going to kill me,” Shame pleaded.

“No. Speak freely, my son. What do you wish to show us?” Jesus motioned out into the void, a dark expanse like a starless night sky.

There was silence for a moment. Then, lights shone in the void, revealing something like… film reels. Reels revealing the contorted faces of angry parents, of failed grades and summer school. Bullies calling me gay and fat. Rejection. Isolation.

Reels of my older brother treating me like a burden, other times laughing at me, other times beating me up.

Jesus, Shame, no, my young self, and I watched these reels together. We wept. Jesus looked to my young self and he looked back, seeing the tears. The pain that the God-man felt for the boy.

“I know it hurts,” I began. But… if I can show you…”

I willed new reels to emerge. Not to erase, not to minimize, or pretend the old reels away, but to hold space for hope. To show that the world was not as black and evil as young me felt. That God had not left us for dead.

We beheld my son and daughter, laughing and playing. My wife, holding me close and warm. My many art pieces. Tears of people I had comforted and helped when no one else could or wanted to.

“Please show me these more,” my young self pleaded. “I can’t see any of this when these memories of our hurt come up. Remind me that this is our life now, not the memories.”

I nodded firmly, and thanked my young self for his effort to draw attention to our hurts that needed to be witnessed.

And Jesus, holding us both, said firmly, “I’m making everything new.”