Overcoming ShameSample

Day 1: When Shame Calls You Back to the Boat

Shame, in a moment, doesn’t just whisper insults or shout accusations—it echoes.

Shame flashes onto our timelines, opportunistic, unwelcome, and it stays. It is determined to hijack future moments, with a power to distort memories, and while in the present, shame pulls us backward into old wounds, stunting our ability to see and feel clearly, halting any way in which to move forward. Shame reaches through time, grabs us by the heart, and drags us into haunting places of pain, trauma, and regret. And like Adam and Eve in the Garden, the first of our kind to be ashamed, we too are forced to hide. Then we attempt to cover up and shame forces us to isolate.

Shame’s power lies in separation—convincing us to pull away from others, and ultimately, its worst symptom, to pull away from the love and light of God.

Peter knew this well.

After his bitter betrayal—three denials, a rooster’s crow, and tears of regret—Peter did what many of us do: he went back to what was familiar. He went fishing. Because when shame speaks, we tend to shrink. We retreat to old habits, old places, and similar stories. But the love of Jesus? It meets us on the shore.

In John 20, we’re told Peter witnessed everything: the cross, the empty tomb, and the risen Christ. He was there by the fire, until he heard dawn’s crow—just like Jesus said. He also witnessed the grave clothes lying folded. He heard the testimony of his friends that Jesus had risen from the dead. Yet, in those first days after, there’s no record of a personal conversation between Peter and Jesus. No resolution. No closure.

Can you imagine how heavy those days must have felt for Peter?

You’ve probably felt something like it. That sinking moment when you’ve hurt someone—said or done something you swore you'd never do—and then bumped into them days later at church, or school, or a family event. The ache in your stomach. The need to avoid their eyes. The weight on your chest. That’s shame. And its ability to achingly linger.

Thankfully, John 21 continues the story.

Still feeling the heaviness, Peter says, “I’m going fishing.” And the other disciples choose to go too. My guess? Not because they were eager to fish—but because they knew their friend was really hurting, and they didn’t want him to be alone.

While out on the water, something familiar happens. A voice calls out from the shore: “Catch anything?”

“No,” they reply.

It’s a typical exchange for fishermen, curious folks on the shore asking, “How’s it going?” But this man on the shore continues: “Try the other side.”

Maybe it was at that moment that Peter felt something stir. Maybe it was the moment later when there was a big tug on the nets. Maybe it all came crashing in like déjà vu, reminding him of the first time he met Jesus. And suddenly, John shouts, “It is the Lord.”

Without hesitation, Peter grabs his robe, throws himself into the sea, and swims. He had walked on water before—maybe he thought he could this time, but alas, this time he swims… and hard. He overcomes shame for a moment. Often that is all it takes, the need to be close again outweighs the command to hide.

When he reaches shore, Jesus is already there. And He’s built a fire.

Not just any fire, the same kind Peter stood around a few days earlier when he denied Jesus. Jesus wasn’t avoiding the scene of Peter’s failure. He had gone ahead and prepared for it.

This is the beautiful paradox of grace: Jesus doesn’t erase the moment of shame—He transforms it.

Jesus looks at Peter and asks, “Do you love me?” Not once, but three times—mirroring Peter’s denials.

This isn’t punishment. It’s restoration.

The fire and words that once symbolized Peter’s greatest failure becomes the place of his deepest healing. A moment of bitter regret is met with tender compassion and purposeful redemption. Jesus isn’t scolding Peter. He’s loving him—again. Fully. Personally.

Shame thrives in secrecy, silence, and judgment. It tells us we’re disqualified. That our failures define us. That we’ll never be more than what we did—or what was done to us.

But Jesus doesn’t just forgive. He restores.

He calls us to the shore. He invites us to the fire. He draws us close.

In Christ, shame doesn’t get the final word.

Instead, we’re invited back into love…back into purpose…back into the life we were made for—this time a little wiser, and a lot freer.

That’s often how wisdom grows—learning what not to do, then getting back up and moving forward in the experiential lesson of grace.

If you’re carrying shame—especially the hidden kind, the kind rooted in failure, or addictions, or sexual wounds—hear this:

Jesus is already on the shore.
He’s already built the fire.
He’s made breakfast.
He knows your story.
He knows the mistakes and the wounds.
And He wants you.

Yes, you.

He made that clear on the cross. But now, He wants to make it intimately personal.

Will you meet Him there?

To do so, you’ll need to courageously leave the boat. Leave that place of coping, hiding, and attempting to control the powerful waves of shame—let it go by abandoning the boat. Step out. Swim hard. Come to the fire.

And then standing there wet and cold, let Love’s fire warm you, dry you, and begin to rewrite your story.

Peter’s story didn’t end in shame. He went on, went on to become a pillar of the early Church, proclaiming the Gospel with boldness. The same man who denied Jesus became a man entrusted to lead His people. Not despite his failure—but because Jesus met him in his failures, redeemed him, and sent him back into the world with a fire of his own for an even larger Gospel of More.

And so it is with you.

You don’t have to carry shame any longer. You don’t have to live under a false name or a story shaped by regret. Jesus is calling.

Look up.
Find Him.
Step out of the boat.
Swim hard.
Come to the fire.

Let Love rewrite your story.

As you reflect with God today, consider asking him:

Father, where have I gone back to the boat in my life?

Jesus, where are you inviting me to restoration?

Holy Spirit, what shame am I still carrying—and what truth are you offering me instead?