I can’t tell you how many times a day I call myself an idiot. Sometimes I even blurt it out loud. Other times it stays as a mental refrain. I want to get a cup but open the cabinet of plates. Idiot. I can’t find my phone for the fifth time that day. Idiot. Then I find my phone, and my five-minute break somehow becomes an hour wasted on it. Idiot. Realizing that I missed an important deadline. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Becoming aware that I’ve tried unsuccessfully for decades to stop this knee-jerk name-calling of myself? Shame on me.

I used to think that being a Christian meant that my life would, and should, be on a consistent trajectory of increasing faith and decreasing shame. The more I believed God and his promises to me, the more I should be free from shame. So, whenever I felt any shame, I would then feel shame about my shame. If I really believe that God created me and loves me, why do I so often let shame define me as someone who is damaged and worthless, a hopeless idiot?

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