One of My Shame Stories (part 1)

Last summer I decided I wanted to expand the concrete patio on the back of our house. Because I’ve planted trees around the house over the years, there’s no way we could get a cement mixer close enough to pour concrete. So I hired my older son to help me excavate it with shovels and pickaxes, and then use pavers as a substitute for concrete.

 

Early summer of 2018 was wet in the Upstate, and the area we were excavating quickly became a red clay mud pit. One Saturday, I decided I wanted to get an early start. I got dressed, grabbed a handful of dry oatmeal squares for a quick on-the-go breakfast, and got to work.

 

About thirty minutes into it, I felt my stomach do a loop-d-loop. Uh. I paused, stood upright, quietly pretended that didn’t just happen, and got back to work. Then, about ten minutes later, my stomach did another loop-d-loop going the other direction. Uh oh. Where was the water hose? I needed to clean up, roughly and with pace, so I could get in the house.

 

If I could get around the full length of our house, then around to the front, there’s an entrance to a tiled mudroom with a half-bath. Once there, I’d be fine. As I started to make my way, whatever was going on intestinally decided to accelerate. I was shuffling, knees together, trying my best to hold things in. And then, just as I was rounding the back corner of the house, it all came. Everything. Out the back end.

 

I stopped right there, dead in my tracks. I have no words. Then two lightening impulses. One, I cannot believe that at fifty-five years old I just dumped in my pants. Two, I’m not telling anyone.

 

Knees still together, I got myself into the mudroom and, taking a risk in desperation, called for my wife. When I heard her coming through the living room, I told her to stop, get a clean pair of underwear for me, and don’t ask me any questions. It was a vulnerable moment, to be sure. Mercifully, she did just that and walked away. (Thanks, Babe.)

 

I got in the half-bath and considered what to do with my soiled underwear. Silly me, I decided to try to save them. So I put the dirty underwear in the toilet bowl, got on my knees, and started to hand wash the undies. And that’s when it happened.

 

I had a flashback to a time in my life that I hadn’t thought about in fifty years. Fifty. Years. Through all my years of academic training, I’ve never given much thought or credence to repressed memories. But I do now. I also haven’t given much study to the subject of shame. But I have now.

 

When I was roughly five years old, I had a season in my life where I’d be out playing with friends blocks from home, and my stomach would do that loop-d-loop thing. I’d start running for home, but before I could get there I’d mess in my pants. When I’d walk in the house, my Mom would take me to the upstairs bathroom, put my underwear in the toilet bowl, then stand over me while I hand washed it out. And then when my Dad would get home from work, he’d spank me. No questions. No attempt that I can remember at discovery. Just shame and discipline.

 

I have no idea how long this went on. But after checking with the siblings who were still at home at that time, they all say it went on longer than my memories can recall. If my parents were still alive, I know they’d be mortified. Not that I’m telling this story on them, but that I’m sure they had no idea what their course of action was doing to me. They were, after all, good and Godly parents.  

 

Where is this going? Why am I writing about it? Because, for reasons I don’t fully understand, I believe the flashback I had last year was no accident. The timing still confounds me. And yet, I am continuing to learn valuable lessons from this that I believe will benefit others.

 

Here are some related things I’m considering writing about in coming editions:

 

-- Biblically, the opposite of shame is honor. Some scholars say that the shame/honor matrix is “the pivotal cultural value” of the Bible. If so, it’s worth exploring in a meaningful way.

 

-- While there are women’s studies on shame, men don’t talk about this. And yet, men are hyper-sensitive to anything that would cause them to lose face, status, respect. It’s fairly common in my office that a man gets ticked at his wife for being too honest about their problems. In his unidentified and unnamed insecurity, the deeper healing doesn’t happen because he’s unwilling to go there. Instead of saying, “Where else is there crap on me?” he throws it back on her.  

 

-- If you still have children at home, then I’d like to ask that you slow down and be more thoughtful as you go through the discipline process with your kids. Ask questions. Check your anger. Never treat your kids as less than a fellow human being. Because when you don’t, you have no idea.

 

-- Sometimes, the very thing that turns us off in another person is the thing we view as shameful. If you’re a Christ-follower, He’s asking you to repent of your self-constructed honor by stepping toward that person to find a way to affirm their dignity and worth. Look them in the eye. Say something. Touch them. After all, that’s what Jesus did for you.