Broken

Have you ever fumbled a piece of china, trying hard to regain your grip on it, yet, in slow motion you watch it sail through the air and crash to the floor, splaying in a thousand pieces?

And the next days and maybe weeks, you find bits of the broken china beneath the cabinets, hidden in the rug, in the corner of the counter. Everywhere, broken pieces everywhere. You may have done the initial sweep up, gathered all the mess and tossed it. But, it might take a while to completely get rid of the broken pieces.

Broken.

Such a simple word, but one that implies long-term clean up. It's not so easy to fix something that's broken in a thousand pieces. We hear it often said: If it ain't broke, don't fix it, right? 

But if it's broke, good luck fixing it.

Have you ever been broken? Are you still? You might have had those dtr's (define the relationship) and cleaned up that initial mess, but maybe there are still broken pieces of resentment, guilt, hatred, tucked away in the corners of your heart? Maybe, you were so broken at one point, that you chose to stay that way. You'd hop from shattered mess to shattered mess, avoiding slipping between the shards and drowning completely, but maintaining balance and control in the midst of the brokenness?

I have been in both places. But, being the fixer that I am, I usually end up with the initial clean up behind me, and then dealing with the shards that poke at the most inopportune time. 

The thing is, I will find myself clinging to those leftover pieces and allowing them to become my focus. Even if I know what needs to be done, I can't pull my eyes away from the brokenness. But, if I do, if I cry out to the Lord, He will deliver me, right? He will lift my head and save me. Even though my troubles consume me, the Lord is close by...waiting for me to look up. 

It's just a matter of will. Mine, that is. 

Sometimes, I just want to wallow. I want to cry and pity myself, and avoid the hope that might linger on the horizon. Sometimes, I am so hurt, that I want to be picked up and coddled like a baby. Taken care of without having to do anything in return. And really, I can do that. But there is something I must do to allow for such comfort. I must turn away from the broken pieces and look toward my Comforter. It's more difficult than it seems, though. And sometimes, it is the last thing I want to do. 

How about you?

These words I should hide in my heart for the next  broken mess:

"The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them;
    he delivers them from all their troubles.
The Lord is close to the brokenhearted
    and saves those who are crushed in spirit.

 The righteous person may have many troubles,
    but the Lord delivers him from them all;
 he protects all his bones,
    not one of them will be broken."

Psalm 34:17-20

My Baby's Comforter

I hate it when my kids are sick. Their little eyes are glassy and sad, and their face scrunch up with pain when they swallow or their tummy hurts. The only good thing that comes from illness, is the chance to give extra cuddles, extra love, extra time. I enjoy serving my family when they are healthy, but it is an extra token to be their comforter when they are sick.

Only a few times in my life have I felt completely hopeless as their comforter. Once, when my 15 month old was hospitalized for the flu and I had to watch the nurses stick tubes up his nose and into his lungs to suck out all the mucus. Nothing Mommy could say or do would make it feel any better or calm him in such a panicked situation of being held down and prodded.

Now is another time where I feel like I am standing by, hopeless, without the ability to soothe. My son is not sick, but he is downtrodden. He cries out with uncertainty of himself, but can't explain the hurt inside. He doesn't want to talk, he holds back his words for fear they will come out wrong. My heart aches for his loss of self-confidence, his struggle to find joy. Sure, it is probably just a phase that is foreshadowing the pre-teen years which are not too far ahead, but right now, this mama wants to hold her baby and take away his hurt. But it's not that easy. How can you change the way someone feels? There is no bandaid except a destructive turn of the head that ignores his deteriorating self-esteem.

All I can do is pray and rely on the faithful hand of God. My only joy from this comes from the already answered prayers and God-surprises along the way that have assured me one very important thing:

That my son is not mine, but God's.

God has proven that He cares for my son these past few days. I can try and butt up against Him and use my own words, my own techniques, my own strategies, or I can step aside and allow the One who most assuredly has the ability to comfort the deep down hurts do His work.
 It's difficult to imagine that there is someone who loves my son more than me, but no matter how much I love him, I can't always comfort him. I must accept that my Heavenly Father, my son's Heavenly Father, will love him more and will never fail as his ultimate Comforter.