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”
. . . 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,”
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.