The Bucket on My Head

When Shame Told Me to Hide and Love Opened the Closet Door

When I was in third grade, my teacher had a rule: if you got caught chewing gum in class, you had to stick it on your nose.

One day at recess, my best friend and I put a giant piece of pink bubble gum in our mouths. We spent the entire recess blowing bubbles and laughing. We were having so much fun that we completely forgot to spit it out when the bell rang.

Within moments of returning to class, our teacher noticed.
"Put the gum on your noses," she said.

That large piece of sticky pink gum covered a good portion of my nose and even blocked part of my vision. I glanced over at my friend. She wore hers almost like a badge of honor.
I, on the other hand, felt something very different.

I felt shame.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the tears from coming.

It was probably only a few minutes before the teacher let us throw the gum away, but to me it felt much longer. My dad was the assistant principal, and I was convinced the teacher would tell him what I had done. I just knew I was going to be in trouble.

The shame followed me for the rest of the school day.

By the time I got home, it had grown so large in my mind that I went upstairs, grabbed a bucket, climbed into my closet, shut the door, put the bucket on my head, and cried.

Looking back, it's a little funny. But at the time, it felt devastating.

It wasn't long before my mom found me.

I can still picture what she saw when she opened the closet door: her daughter sitting in the dark with a bucket on her head, convinced she had done something terrible.

To her credit, she somehow managed not to laugh.

Instead, she sat beside me and listened while I poured out the whole story.

Then she did something beautiful.

She comforted me.

She wasn't worried about the mistake. She was worried about her daughter.

She explained that chewing gum in class wasn't the end of the world. Everyone makes mistakes. Everything would be okay. Most importantly, she reminded me that I was still loved.

Later, when my dad came home, we told him what had happened. I expected disappointment.
Instead, he was more concerned that I had been publicly embarrassed. He reassured me. He loved me.

There was no shame coming from either of my parents.

I've thought about that experience many times over the years.

What stands out to me now is that the shame I felt that day didn't come from my parents. It didn't come from my teacher either and honestly, it didn't really come from the gum.
It came from the story I started believing about myself.
Somewhere between wearing that gum on my nose and putting a bucket on my head, I stopped thinking, I made a mistake, and started believing, I am the mistake.

Now, when thoughts like that creep in, I've learned to ask myself a simple question.
Who told me that?

Because that certainly wasn't my Heavenly Father.

The Holy Ghost lovingly helps us recognize when we need to repent or change. The Spirit teaches, guides, and invites us to become better.

But shame speaks differently. Shame convinces us that because we made a mistake, we are the mistake.

It tells us to hide.

I've come to believe that's one of Satan's greatest lies, that after we've made a mistake, we should hide from the very person who can heal us.

When Adam and Eve partook of the fruit, they hid. I've always found that interesting.
It wasn't Heavenly Father who hid from them.
They hid from Him and then Heavenly Father did something beautiful.

He came looking for them.

I think that's still what He does.

When we're carrying embarrassment, regret, or shame, He doesn't wait for us to become perfect before coming closer.

He comes looking for us.

One of my favorite parts of this story is imagining my mom opening that closet door.
The older I get, the more I think that's what Heavenly Father's love looks like.

He doesn't shame us into coming back.
He opens the door.
He sits beside us.
He reminds us we are still loved.

Sometimes I wonder how many of us are still sitting in metaphorical closets wearing buckets on our heads.
Maybe it's because of something that happened last week.
Maybe it's because of something that happened years ago.
Maybe we've listened to the voice of shame for so long that we've forgotten what our Father's voice sounds like.

If that's you, can I ask you a question?
Who told you that?

Because I don't think it was Heavenly Father.

Sometimes I think about that little third-grade girl sitting alone in her closet with a bucket on her head. If I could sit beside her today, I'd put my arm around her and ask:

"Sweet girl... who told you that?"

Because it wasn't her mom.
It wasn't her dad.
And it certainly wasn't her Heavenly Father.

He's not standing outside the closet waiting to remind her of her mistake.
He's the One opening the door.
He's the One sitting beside her.
He's the One reminding her she is still loved.
Maybe that's the question we all need to ask when shame starts telling us who we are:
Who told you that?

My amazing parents

XOXO

Tiffanee