(Sorry for the hiatus. I’ll try not to let it go so long next time! In the meantime, here’s another piece I wrote for a writing prompt from my friend Sarah.)
When I was about five years old, I started ballet lessons. When my first lesson took place, I didn’t yet have the pale pink leotard and tights that the other girls had. I decided to dress as closely as I could to pink by wearing red, but when I stood in line with my bright red cardigan and skirt, in the midst of all the other little girls in their delicate pink, I felt the shame of being the odd one out, a shame which burned as bright a red as my clothes.
It wasn’t my first time to feel shame or embarrassment, and it certainly wasn’t my last. I’ve made silly mistakes. Been laughed at. Displayed my ignorance. I’ve sinned, or been caught out in sin. One way or the other, I’ve felt shame again and again.
Memory is kind: to my relief, many of the times in my life that have embarrassed me have been long forgotten. Others will stay with me always. Souls blush much longer than cheeks do.
But ashamed as I often am of myself, what a surprise it is to think that Jesus is not ashamed of me–not ashamed to call us brethren, as the Bible says. He won’t blush when He introduces me to the Father. He won’t need to. The red of His blood has cancelled out the red of all my shame. Because red on red actually makes white.