A Front Porch Reflection on Guilt, Grace, and Gettin’ Free

A Front Porch Reflection on Guilt, Grace, and Gettin’ Free

By Kateb Shunnar

Now let me tell you somethin’, friend if guilt had a smell, it’d probably be that thick burnt roux that sat on the stove too long when you turned your head to answer the phone. You know the kind looks good at first, then poof, gone wrong in a blink. That’s what guilt do to you. It sneaks in quiet, sets up camp in your chest, and burns everything that used to taste like peace. And the wild part? Most times, we the ones stirrin’ it.

See, folks walk around this world actin’ like the Almighty appointed ‘em as chief guilt distributors. They’ll look you dead in the face and remind you of every wrong turn you ever took every bad decision, every time you stumbled. And if you let ‘em, they’ll hang it on your neck like Mardi Gras beads you didn’t even ask for. But the real kicker? Half the time, you don’t even need their help you out here beatin’ yourself up like you tryin’ to audition for the Heavyweight Championship of Self-Punishment.

Let me paint the picture for you. I was sittin’ out on the porch one sticky evenin’ down on Orleans and White that kinda humid where the air feels like it’s tryin’ to hug you but you don’t want it to. My grandmother Celestine, Lord rest her beautiful soul, was sittin’ in her favorite chair with her fan flappin’ like it had wings. She had that look peaceful but powerful. You know, the way old folks get when they done lived enough to see through people’s nonsense. I was sittin’ there moanin’ about somethin’ I’d done years ago. I can’t even remember what it was now, but I was draggin’ it like an old broken suitcase the kind with one wheel that don’t spin.

I said, “Granny, I just can’t shake this guilt. It’s like every time I think I’m movin’ forward, I trip over it again.”

She leaned back slow, smirked, and said, “Boy, stop draggin’ that same ol’ guilt down the street like it’s your pet. Ain’t nobody told you guilt don’t fetch no blessings?” Then she chuckled that deep, belly laugh that sounded like it had sugar and wisdom in it.

“Guilt,” she said, “is like that old church fan you keep flappin’ even though you sittin’ under a big ol’ ceiling fan. It’s habit, baby. You do it ‘cause it feels like you supposed to.”

Now, that woman could turn a phrase that’d stick to your ribs better than red beans and rice.

And while she was talkin’, Old Man Rufus from down the block came struttin’ up the street with his suspenders hangin’ loose and a grin wider than the Mississippi. Everybody in the neighborhood knew Rufus he was the kinda man who could tell a story so tall, you’d need a ladder to catch the truth in it. He stopped at the porch and said, “Celestine, you out here preachin’ again?”

She smiled. “Somebody got to, ‘cause y’all still out here blamin’ yourselves for stuff the Creator done forgave you for ten years ago.”

Rufus laughed and said, “Well, you tell ‘em, ‘cause I’m still mad at myself for losin’ that good woman back in ’83.”

“Rufus,” Celestine said, “you ain’t lose her. She escaped. And you still alive to tell the tale, ain’t you? That means you got another chance.”

We all cracked up. Rufus tipped his hat and said, “Well, I’ll be. You right. Maybe it’s time I stop beatin’ myself up. My jaw tired.”

Now, you might think that was just porch talk, but lemme tell you there’s gospel in that. We hold on to guilt like it’s gold, when really it’s rust. It eats at your spirit, clogs your blessings, and makes you feel unworthy of the good that’s already yours. Guilt is that whisper in your ear that says, “Remember when you messed up?” even when the Creator’s already said, “It’s done. You free.”

You ever notice how guilt don’t travel alone? It always brings its cousins shame, regret, and overthinking. They come in like uninvited guests, eatin’ up your peace and leavin’ dirty dishes in your mind. And before you know it, you’re sittin’ in that mess wonderin’ why your spirit feels heavy.

Now here’s the thing: guilt ain’t always born outta bad intentions. Sometimes it shows up ‘cause we didn’t know better at the time. We was tryin’ our best with the tools we had, but hindsight’s rude it always shows up actin’ like it knows everything. You ever look back at a younger version of yourself and say, “Lord, what was I thinkin’?” Don’t lie we all done it. But here’s what Granny used to say: “You can’t blame the seed for not bein’ a tree yet.”

See, back then, I was guilty of lettin’ people define me. Somebody’d throw a little shade or a sly comment, and I’d let it sink in like gospel. I’d start questionin’ my worth ‘cause of somebody else’s broken opinion. One day I told Granny, “Maybe they right about me.”

She leaned over, squinted her eyes, and said, “Boy, don’t you ever let somebody with cloudy vision tell you what you look like. Only the One who made you knows the full picture.”

That woman had more truth than a Sunday morning sermon.

And Rufus Lord, Rufus had his own philosophy. One night, he sat out there with his harmonica, sippin’ sweet tea, and said, “You ever notice, guilt got a way of showin’ up like an old ex? It don’t call, don’t text, just appears outta nowhere talkin’ ‘bout, ‘Remember me?’ And you sittin’ there like, ‘Yeah, but I moved on.’”

That man wasn’t wrong. Guilt will sneak up when you least expect it right when things start goin’ good. It’s that little voice that says, “You don’t deserve this happiness.” And that’s when you gotta speak back and say, “You don’t get to stay here rent-free no more.”

‘Cause here’s the truth: guilt don’t pay no bills. It don’t add no joy. It don’t grow nothin’ good. All it does is weigh you down, like ankle weights on a soul tryin’ to run free. You can’t soar when you keep remindin’ yourself you don’t deserve wings.

And if we bein’ honest, sometimes the guilt ain’t even ours to carry. It’s passed down from family, from church folks, from people who meant well but didn’t know how to heal themselves. We inherit their shame like an old hand-me-down coat that don’t fit right but we wear it anyway. You ever seen somebody walk around with guilt so long, it becomes part of their posture? Shoulders hunched, spirit tired, eyes lookin’ for mercy that’s already there.

You don’t need to beg for forgiveness that’s already been given. You just need to receive it.

Now, I ain’t sayin’ you shouldn’t make amends if you done somebody wrong. If you broke a heart, mend it. If you told a lie, tell the truth. But once you do your part, you gotta let it go. That’s what freedom looks like responsibility, then release.

Granny Celestine used to say, “Forgiveness is like washin’ your hands after crawfish season. You don’t keep smellin’ your fingers wonderin’ why they stink.”

That woman was holy and hilarious.

And let’s talk about other folks for a minute — ‘cause Lord knows some people love remindin’ you of who you used to be. They got selective memory forget their own mess but remember yours clear as daylight. You tell ‘em you’ve changed and they look at you like, “Mmhmm, we’ll see.”

Let me give you some New Orleans advice: don’t let small-minded people rent space in your spirit. You ain’t a punching bag for nobody’s projection. If they try to bring you down to who you used to be, smile and say, “That version expired, baby. Check the date.”

See, the problem is, some of us mistake humility for humiliation. We think we gotta shrink to stay forgiven. Nah. You can walk tall in grace. You can laugh again. You can dance again. You can fry your fish, hum your tune, and live your peace ‘cause there’s no condemnation for a soul that’s been set free.

One Sunday afternoon, Granny was out front just wavin’ at folks like she always did. I asked, “Granny, why you wave at everybody like you runnin’ for mayor?” She said, “Baby, I’m wavin’ all my worries away. I figure if my hands busy wavin’, they can’t be carryin’ baggage.”

That stuck with me. So now, every time guilt tries to sneak up, I picture her on that porch, wavin’ with her fan, smilin’ at the world like she owed it no explanation. And I wave, too wave at my worries, my regrets, my what-ifs, and my coulda-beens. I let ‘em drift off down the block like smoke after a cookout.

Old Man Rufus came by one last time before he passed, and he said, “You know, Celestine was right. I spent half my life feelin’ bad ‘bout what I done, and the other half feelin’ bad ‘bout what I didn’t. Ain’t that somethin’? But now I just say, ‘Lord, I did the best I could with what I knew,’ and I let it be.”

He looked out at the street, nodded, and said, “Guilt is like that jazz tune you keep hummin’ ‘cause you don’t know how to end it. You gotta hit that last note and walk away.”

That night, I swear I could almost hear Granny laughin’ in the wind, sayin’, “That’s it, Rufus. Play your note and move on.”

And maybe that’s the lesson we all need stop lettin’ guilt be the background music of your life. Stop lettin’ folks beat you down with your own story. The Creator already wrote redemption in your name. You ain’t stuck in yesterday; you just still lookin’ back there.

Next time your mind starts playin’ reruns of your mistakes, change the channel. Don’t waste your peace watchin’ old episodes. The new season’s about forgiveness, grace, and growth.

And if you ever feel yourself slippin’ back into that spiral of self-blame, remember this: you have the authority to end your misery. Ain’t nobody holdin’ you hostage but you. Say it out loud if you have to “That won’t work on me anymore.”

You are not what you did. You are what you’ve overcome.

So quit actin’ like your guilt got more power than your Creator. You survived storms other folks didn’t even see. You’re still standin’, still learnin’, still growin’. And that alone makes you worthy.

As Granny used to hum while hangin’ laundry, “Ain’t no chain strong enough to hold a soul that’s done forgiven itself.”

So here’s your assignment, baby next time guilt come knockin’, you tell it you moved. Tell it you livin’ somewhere peace don’t allow drama. You got joy now, and you ain’t takin’ no emotional squatters.

Go sit on your porch, grab a cool drink, and wave them worries away like Granny Celestine did. Laugh a little. Dance if you feel like it. ‘Cause life’s too short to keep beatin’ yourself up when the fight been over.

You free, baby. Act like it.

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