Broken Things

I own a lot of broken things...

This awareness came to me one day last week when I remembered a broken necklace that I have had for a while and have resisted repairing it...

I took it to my Dad-in-Love's house this summer to fix it, but after I left I had this distinct feeling that I was supposed to leave it broken....

At least for now.

Holding the two broken pieces in my hand I was reminded in a tangible way of the promise that Jesus is close to the brokenhearted. (Ps. 34:18)

I stood there looking at the delicate design, admiring the workmanship, knowing all the while that I have what it takes to fix the broken part of this beautiful thing...

But for right now it serves a better purpose for me in it's brokenness.

I have always readily identified with broken things. Not that I'm fond of junk per se, but I love to take something that was once lovely or functional and repair it or remake it into something new.

I'm certain that this trait is a reflection of my Heavenly Father and His desire to restore and redeem.

But for some time now I have had this nudge to leave things broken.

So I do...

Jesus understands broken...

I love the nativity set that I saved from the trash.

With some patience, (and super glue gel), I was able to repair a broken camel tail, restore a Shepherd who had a broken neck, and make a few other small repairs...

But what about baby Jesus with His missing hand?

I couldn't just leave Him that way, could I?

He who is Holy, whole, complete, lacking in nothing?

The One who brought His flawlessness to trade for all my shattered pieces?

All my shattered pieces...

All those parts of me that don't work so well.

The ones that I don't usually let anyone see....

Because, really, who wants to be broken?

This delicate tea cup sits in my china cupboard unrepairable.

I broke it one day while rearranging things and several pieces were so small they couldn't be saved.

From the front, outside the glass of the door, it looks perfect. Functional. Delicately stunning, (For those of us that appreciate tea cups.) But I know that it's broken. 

I own it.

It's mine.

I understand fully that it will never be able to do the task that it was originally intended to do...

and I keep it anyway.

I'm not usually one to write in the wee hours of the morning before anyone is awake at our house...

sleep has been an illusive friend these last many nights.

Usually I'm an evening writer, choosing to wind my day and mind down with the soothing keystrokes that I have loved since adolescence. 

I started this post many days ago. However, every time I started to move toward writing I felt the word "wait".

Waiting is not my strong suit, I'm getting better as I age, it's never come easy to me...

but this time, I did.

I tend to write from experience, I think that's pretty common, and the last several days have brought a level of brokenness that is new and uncharted for me.

There's nothing like a serious health issue with someone you love to rip everything about your reality into sharp focus.

And if you're going to navigate without losing your sanity, your hope, your ability to function.... then Jesus had better be right in the middle of that focus.

In fact He needs to be THE focus.

I remember when someone else in my family had a health trial that had me on my knees and pushed me past my ability to handle things myself.

It was my son then.

He was 12 years old when I got a call from the school that he was having an issue with his heart.

I'll never forget his chalky pallor and violet hands.

My son who had always been the healthy kid. 

The one who didn't pick up whatever bug was going around at our church nursery.

My athletic toddler who could ride a scooter, with the handle as low as it could go, along the tops of curbs.

The deep thinker, the loud laugher, the star pitcher, great hugger, ever active boy....

Broken.

He had been running the mile at his middle school and his heart decided not to fire it's electrical impulses correctly.

Those were long months while we figured out what was going on.

Doctor appointments, testing, episodes with his heart that sent me racing down the Interstate to Seattle Children's Hospital praying that I could make it before... 

I can feel the urgency even now. 

And then the five and a half hour cardiac surgery that brought a new diagnosis smack in the middle of it, and was finally declared unsuccessful by the surgeon himself...

It was all so difficult. 

We had no idea what the future looked like for him, for us.

I remember bringing him home to our little temporary house on the campus at Warm Beach Camp and sleeping at the other end of our comfy couch from him the first few nights as we let the arterial incisions in his legs heal.

The instructions I was given were this:

"If you notice any blood at the incision sites, ANY BLOOD, apply firm direct pressure and call 911."

Did I mention that Warm Beach Camp isn't particularly close to any major freeways? 

The thoughts that race through the mind of a mother that hasn't really slept well for several months when she hears instructions like that are enough to steal your breath and not give it back.

Those were scary times.

I was keenly aware of my lack of coping skills, of being pushed to the limit, of the brevity and delicacy of life itself.

Brokenness does that.

And now I sit with a new brokenness that unlocks the floodgates of a fresh torrent of thoughts and realities that I have been somewhat seasickly navigating.

Looking down the barrel of uncertainty doesn't usually bring out the best in people, and when I say people I mean me.

I have learned to handle uncertainty on some levels very well.

We all live with it daily.

There are tons of things we can't truly be sure of... job security, national security, other people's choices, even simple things like our car starting when we need it to.

Unexpected things happen and for the most part I have learned to live with that and ride those waves fairly well.

But being faced with with a potential diagnosis for this one I love that carries a discouraging prognosis at best...

Well in my book it feels like a tsunami, and there's no riding that.

All I can do is head to Higher Ground.

In all my brokenness, my lack of great coping skills, my inability to fix, change, control anything....

I run to Jesus.

He knows I'm broken anyway.

He owns me.

I'm His.

My broken things remind me of my own brokenness. 

Broken doesn't mean unlovely, unlovable, unloved.

It just means I need to be repaired.

Someone to be strength where I'm weak, to be functional where I'm not...

Maybe someone to just Hold me in His hand and gaze upon His delicate workmanship knowing all the while that He has what it takes to fix me....

and maybe, just maybe, right NOW I serve a better purpose for Him

broken.