I lay staring at the ceiling I couldn’t see through the dark. Lying next to him, not a sniffle escaped as my face crinkled and tears ran silent down around my ears. I thought to myself, “I’m not supposed to let the sun go down on my anger . . . but I’m not angry, I’m ashamed.” Can I let the sun go down on that?”
Covered with blankets, but exposed to the skin, I wasn’t ready to apologize or ask forgiveness. I liked it better under the covers. While I wondered what to do with my shame, sleep snuck in unnoticed.
The next morning I arose, and my heart groped for the bed. All my life was in question. I felt silly for all I write about the Tale. “Is it true? Why can’t I keep my head up? Why do I feel hopeless and alone?”
“Why have you forsaken me?”
The question surprised me. I’d heard those words before.
For an unloving comment made to my husband, the weight was more than I could bear. For the weight of a whole world’s error, the same question was begged long ago. It feels far removed until its words, spoken by the Savior, swell up in a forlorn soul in her suburban shower.
“Have You forsaken me?” The water pouring over me, as I tried to wash down my embarrassment and escape my doings, could not do what those words could. Sometimes begging a question can instantly reveal the answer.
What began as a hiding place for tears became a megaphone for praise. I dried off and put my fig leaves on again, but my heart was free of its cage. Someone understood and felt my shame, all of it at once, and long before I did. Someone took my shame and covered it. I have a hiding place forever.
I was free to ask forgiveness and mean it. Not bound to the sheets or the shower, I am hiding free wherever I go.