Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Brokenness




Brokenness

Being Broken


I Am Brokenness, Lord
                                                         . . . fix me.


I am empty, Lord
                                                 . . . fill me.


I am lonely, Lord
                                                . . . meet me


I am sad, Lord
                                                            . . . collect my tears


I am confused, Lord
                                                                     . . . “I Am that I Am”


I am
                                    . . . Yours, Lord.


* * *

The day broke early for me.  I tossed from one dream to the next . . . lost passport nightmares . . . ailing children nightmares . . . unrest.  I rose in the darkness and found a note from my sweet husband, whose LA-Tuesday business trips separate us by space, but not by heart.

“Have a relaxing day,”
he wrote.


I cry.

Oh, how I want to relax . . . need to relax . . . pray to relax.  But . . .

I think I lack the relax “app.”

Oh, how I long to shrug.  Yes, shrug – just let things fall away with a flick of the shoulders, a toss of the head.  Gone.  Next.  Aaaahhhhh.


My sweet son Andrew could never shrug.  His little shoulders and neck fused so painfully into solid little blocks.  He couldn’t even lift his arms.  His brain had so locked up those muscles in cerebral palsy’s firm grip.  Yet, the clever little boy learned to laugh.  And when he laughed he relaxed – and soared.

He sought and found a fount of joy that carried him beyond the straits of disability.  The unleashing came in great peals of laughter; laughter like church bells ringing across a bucolic valley for all to hear and celebrate with him.

I can still hear his guffaws.   
His belly laughs.   
His infectious giggles. 

I want to laugh and dance with him in my arms just once more.  I want to feel his velvety cheek next to mine as we twirl and spin and laugh.  I want to feel a butterfly kiss once again from lashes so long that strangers would stop to comment.  I want  . . .

. . . what I cannot have.





I awoke in darkness today.  I broke a teapot.  I smeared my journal with tears.  Is this a good day?  Am I defective?  Inadequate?  Broken? Are you there beside me, Lord?  Do you see what I see?  Do you feel what I feel?  Am I ready to relax?  Am I ready to let go?  Can I shrug and move along as some have suggested?  Do I want to?  Must I?  Will I lose something if I run from tears and sadness when I meet them along the pilgrim’s path?   I wonder . . . Oh, how I wonder . . . 

I am always wondering . . . 

and I call it prayer.

Some will never understand me, but those who love me do:  He who made me, he who married me, they who grew from that love, and those who have melded hearts with me along the way – these gather me to their hearts and love me in an understanding way.  My world grows by heartbeats, not shrugs.

I still sit here in this quiet, empty room but the sun has broken the dawn with a watery light that struggles through a wall of clouds.   


 The silence cracks with the stirrings of the newly-formed day.

My tears have dried, but my teapot lies beyond repair.  My arms ache, but my child lies beyond their reach.  My tension fades, but I remain unable to shrug.  I am created with needs beyond my abilities.  My brokenness cannot be repaired by my own hands or skill, but by His love.


To give unto them beauty for ashes,
The oil of joy for mourning,
The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;
That they might be called trees of righteousness,
The plantings of the Lord,
That he might be glorified.

Isaiah 61:3

5 comments:

Laura~peach~ said...

HUGSSSSSS

Linda said...

There is so much sadness in the world, but I am so thankful that He can fill our emptiness. He is our Rock, Our Security, Our Peace, Our Health. He is our Future!

jojo said...

only one mother's empty pain can understand that of another mother...I understand and I weep for your empty arms...God is there, holding us up, drying our tears, carrying our sons. be well my friend.

Flea said...

I don't fully understand. I weep with you nonetheless. As a mother, the thought of losing a child ...

Am following the journey of another blogger whose young adult son committed suicide a few minutes after they argued. Nine months later and she's still breaking apart. And she doesn't know or understand the peace God gives. I feel wholly inadequate to speak to her pain, not having walked in her shoes. Or yours. I'm glad you know the Father who heals. Who loves. Who embraces you.

Simply Debbie said...

i understand the death of a child...therefore i feel i understand your tears;
how the love of our children are beyond our reach;
how when dawn breaks...WE MUST REJOICE...IT IS REQUIRED OF US...and some days i want to rebel and keep a cold heart....but the LIVES OF OUR CHILDREN MEAN TOO MUCH to stay in a cold, barren place
love you my sister in Christ
simply debbie