Shame Enslaves

The worst sound any federal prisoner can hear… is their last name being called over the chapel loudspeaker.

It cuts through the air different than anything else.

Any inmate who has ever served time behind razor-sharp barbed wire knows exactly what that sound means. There is no confusion. There is no “maybe.”

Only the chaplain is allowed to call you like that… and only for one reason.

It means someone you love in the free world is gone.

A few unfortunate weeks ago, one of the nicest men incarcerated on this concrete compound heard his last name echo through that loudspeaker.

The entire yard felt it.

All of us barbed wire brothers went quiet. Conversations stopped. Movements slowed. You could feel the tension settle into the pit of your stomach.

We all knew what that call meant…

and none of us wanted to be right.

We sat there in gut-wrenching agony, waiting for our fellow felon to return from his bone-chilling callout.

Every second felt like it stood still.

And when he came back into view… something was different.

Teary-eyed.
Broken.
Changed.

Before he even said a word, we knew.

Our worst fears were confirmed.

My dear friend’s son had suddenly passed away over the weekend.

There are no words that can honestly or honorably describe what a father feels in a moment like that.

All I know is this…

The pain on his face was piercing.

The bright light he normally carries—the one that makes everyone around him feel a little better—

was gone.

Like someone flipped a switch.

And in its place… was darkness.

Heavy.
Silent.
Unrelenting.

The shadow of shame didn’t just show up…

it pounced.

It began feasting on this defeated dad’s soul, whispering lie after lie into a heart that was already shattered.

“If only he would have been home instead of locked up these last 10 years…”

“If only he would have guided him better…”

“If only he would have whispered I LOVE YOU and I'M PROUD OF YOU to his son when he was laying in a hospital bed." ”

"If only he could attend his son's funeral to say a final goodbye to his beloved child."”

You could almost hear those thoughts bouncing around in his head.

And standing just two feet away from him…

I watched one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met slowly suffocate in that all-consuming pit of shame.

That’s what makes this shadow so dangerous.

It doesn’t just hurt you…

it traps you.

It waits for your lowest moment…

and then it wraps itself around you, trying to convince you that you are the reason for all of it.

That you are beyond redemption.

That you deserve to stay there.

This disgusting shadow is so sinister because it seeks to enslave us when we are at our weakest.

So please if you could do me a favor and,

Pray for this father.
Pray for his heart.
Pray for peace that doesn’t make sense.

Because I promise you this—

I’m not going anywhere.

I will walk side by side with my barbed wire brother through the messy mud of this life as he tries to process something that no parent should ever have to face.

“Lord Jesus, You always meet us in our darkest seasons of suffering. Please surround my kind-hearted friend with Your warm embrace. Let him feel Your peace in a real, tangible way. Touch his heart, Lord. Heal what feels impossible to heal. LOVE him through this. AMEN.”

Where I currently live…

shame is not a concept.

It’s not something you just talk about in passing.

It is real.
It is heavy.
It is something you can feel pressing on your chest.

This soul-sucking shadow tries to chain us to our past for the rest of our lives.

But I’ve also seen something else here.

I’ve seen what Jesus did on the cross…

and I know it’s real.

Because I’ve felt it in my bones.

His grace.
His forgiveness.
His unconditional love.

We don’t just talk about forgiveness in here…

we crave it.

We cling to it.

We need it more than oxygen.

And I refuse to believe that shame gets the final word in my friend’s life.

Because the blood of Jesus Christ is stronger than regret.
Stronger than loss.
Stronger than even this kind of pain.

And somehow…

even something this devastating…

can be transformed into something that heals.

Sincerely,
Brett
(A man who is feeling the full weight of this place today)

---

A Note From Noél

“Lord Jesus, we lift up Brett’s barbed wire brother to You today. Be with him as he grieves the tragic and unexpected loss of his son. Please, Lord, let this hurting father know his beloved boy is also Your cherished child.

We pray Your Holy Spirit would fill that cement prison cell with a real, tangible peace—because his son is now standing face to face with You in heaven.

Lord Jesus, we trust that You will break the chains trying to hold this father to his past and shatter his shame forever.

Cover him in Your unconditional love. Replace his pain with healing. Meet him right where he is, in the middle of this heartbreak.

Thank You, Jesus, for Your mercy, Your grace, and Your presence in our lowest moments. We love You, Lord. Amen.”

As you just read, shame is not simply a “concept” for Brett and his barbed wire brothers.

They feel it.

It’s heavy.
It’s relentless.
And it shows up loudest in the moments that already hurt the most.

And if I’m being honest… as a mom, I can’t even begin to process what that kind of loss would feel like.

It stops me in my tracks.

It makes me hold my kids a little tighter.

It reminds me just how fragile and sacred this life really is.

BUT…

Our GREAT and MERCIFUL God meets people right there—

in the middle of the unimaginable…

and begins to do what only He can do.

He draws near.
He restores.
He redeems.

Even behind razor-sharp barbed wire…

God’s love still reaches.

And it still heals.

The Bartletts will continue to walk through the messy mud of life with our brothers and sisters who feel like they’re suffocating under the weight of shame.

And if you’re reading this right now and carrying your own version of that weight…

please hear this:

Shame does not get the final word over your life.

Not ever.

Because of Jesus, freedom is still possible—
even here…
even now…
even for you.

That is something our family is holding onto with everything we have.

With so much love,
Noél
(A wife and mother feeling the full weight of this season today)