pieces of the broken, re-imagined into a beautiful work of art. The brokenness remains, and yet it has become so much a part of something more, something bigger than it was originally.
and in the midst of the hurt, the ache, the pieces of our heart that we think will never again be full or working ever again, there is a hand, one that reaches down, picks up the pieces, and tenderly begins to place them in a mosaic of beauty beyond anything we had ever begun to imagine if we had been the creative force.
The broken pieces seem to overwhelm these days. A blog writer extraordinaire who has longed for several years for children, found out upon the day of her child-to-be’s birth, that the birth mama had decided to keep him…12 hours after they received a picture of his birth. His crib was full of blankets, the clothes hung in his closet, pictures of animals adorned his walls a place full of vibrant life to be, now a stark reminder of a raw ache and blistering heart. Closing the door on this room, feels like a punch in the stomach, a sucking out of the last breathe of light…and still her and her husband fight on, for one more breathe, for that one spark of hope, for those broken pieces to be made into something beautiful only He can see and know.
A status update declaring a husband of 30 plus years has signed the paperwork for their divorce only a week ago and is already engaged to the ‘new love of his life’. And i realize that even though i didn’t know it, these two from my past, from my early years seemed infallible to me. They too have suffered deep and felt the cracks threaten their very lives. A vibrant teenage son passing away in the middle of the night from an unknown ailment. Several years of life altering surgery…and with these two tragic events, fissures begin to make themselves known in the relationships. Cracks that perhaps had been masked with basic repair, began to blast wide open, leaving heart break spread carelessly upon the ground, memories lay in cascading force, the blast from the betrayal all encompassing…and yet somewhere, I know that there is hope for her, though the light seems more than dim, barely a flicker.
And I read of a daughter dreamed of, a soul taken to heaven early in the pregnancy…a vision sparked to life and then sent to black and white, only shadows of the dream that was. Not only aching in heart and body, but the young boys who knew the life that had sparked, now speak to know of heaven and their sisters time spent in the arms of their Saviour. And the ribbons and lace, the sparkles of grace, now seem to be a figment, a dream that became a reality and then was snuffed out, like the last burning of that midnight oil. This heart break, this soul tear…this wounding of places so deep and vulnerable, seems that it will bleed forever. and yet, there is hope…the sunlight glistens through the black mask of grief, and that one shard that lights up and pierces through the grief, speaks of a renewal, of a piecing back together…of a hand at work, holding in comfort, picking up and carefully reassembling what was worldly broken.
and my heart aches. Because i know that pain. Because i know that sometimes all you want to do is scream into the silence, to let people know that you’re still alive and that you don’t understand why life continues on like nothing happened when inside its all you can do to try to hold yourself together. When you feel like you’ve fallen to pieces, that you look around you and there isn’t a piece of you that you can call whole…and yet you know, there is hope. That there is a spark, that no matter what, will not be relinquished. and that there is a beam of light, that tears through those places and begins to warm and heal. And that there is a mighty hand, a hand that knows the picture of perfection, that we are being made into a reflection of our broken, beautiful Saviour, more and more as the pieces become smooth and worn and more perfectly fit together into the picture only he can see, to the design only He can fashion in his own way.
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” Rumi