"Jesus stood between me and shame.”

- Alisa F.

Covered

Before I knew His name,

I knew Him.

I would later learn His name— Jesus.

Somewhere in the quiet places of childhood,

before language could form theology,

before understanding could shape belief—

I knew God.

But by five…

I also knew something else.

I believed

I was a bad girl.

And so began a life built on two competing truths:

a God I sensed was real…

and a self I believed was not good.

The strategy became simple:

try harder.

If I failed,

it wasn’t because I was broken—

it was because I didn’t try enough.

So, I tried.

Harder.

Longer.

Better.

Until years stacked on top of years,

and effort turned into exhaustion,

and exhaustion compounded my shame.

And somewhere along the way,

“try harder” quietly became

“you are not enough.”

When I prayed,

I saw Him.

Not as a Father close and near,

but as a distant King—

high and lifted up,

like the Lincoln Memorial,

massive, immovable,

watching from a throne I could never reach.

And I stood small before Him.

Serving.

Striving.

Performing.

Trying to win what I thought

had to be earned.

I called it obedience.

But underneath…

it was a quiet desperation

to be approved,

to be accepted,

to finally be…

a “good girl.”

But even obedience couldn’t heal rejection.

Because when people didn’t include me,

didn’t invite me,

didn’t return what I had given—

something inside me kept record.

A quiet ledger.

A hidden account.

A little black book

of who owed me.

And one day,

in the middle of swirling thoughts,

God revealed it.

Not with anger.

But with truth.

I had been serving—doing what God had placed on my heart, using the very resources He had given me—

but I was also expecting.

Hoping that what I gave in His name—what He had led me to do and equipped me to do—

would come back to me

from them.

Approval.

Inclusion.

Belonging.

And when it didn’t—

the weight of it all

crashed down.

Shame.

Heavy.

Crushing.

Unavoidable.

I fell to my knees.

And in my mind’s eye,

I was back before that throne.

Face down.

Unable to look up.

Because this time,

it wasn’t just failure.

It was exposed motive.

Exposed heart.

Exposed need.

And I could not lift my head,

I could not encounter Father God eye to eye.

But then…

Something shifted.

Movement.

Sound.

Presence.

I looked up.

And there—

through a crowd—

was Jesus.

He was coming toward me.

Not slowly.

Not casually.

But on a mission.

Holding over Head, a small wooden cross—no taller than His chest, its arms stretching wide across His hands—

pushing through the crowd,

making His way

straight to me.

And when He reached me,

He didn’t speak.

He stood.

Between me

and the Father.

And He lifted the cross.

In that moment,

I stood up.

Not because I had earned it.

Not because I had fixed myself.

But because

He covered me.

And as I looked over His shoulder,

through the cross—

I met the Father’s eyes.

Not disappointment.

Not distance.

Love.

Full.

Unwavering.

Joy-filled love.

And Jesus…

Oh, Jesus.

The look on His face—

the joy,

the intensity,

the delight—

as He stood there,

having made a way

for me…

Years later,

when betrayal came—

not from a stranger,

but from my closest friend—

and pain whispered for justice…

I found myself asking, if I run into her-

“How could she look me in the eyes?”

And gently…

so gently…

God asked me:

“Do you remember

when you couldn’t look Me in the eyes?”

And just like that—

the weight broke.

Because who was I

to hold the shame over someone

that Jesus died to free them from?

Forgiveness wasn’t forced.

It flowed.

And when I saw her—

I didn’t pretend.

I embraced her.

Loved her.

Meant it.

Because I had been there.

And I had been covered.

Even now,

when I stumble,

when shame tries to return,

when condemnation whispers—

I go back.

Back to the crowd.

Back to the moment.

Back to Him.

Jesus,

on a mission,

carrying the cross,

standing in my place.

And I remember:

There is no condemnation.

Not for me.

Not for them.

Because He still stands—

between us and the Father.

And He is enough.

Romans 8:34

“Who is the one who condemns? Christ Jesus is He who died, yes, rather who was raised, who is at the right hand of God, who also intercedes for us.”