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Archive for January, 2017

I’ve preached it well.

There is beauty in the broken. And I kneel and motion with my hands as I recite the passage where the woman breaks her jar of nard and pours it over Jesus’ feet. And I mime the story of the cracked water jar that watered a pathway of flowers. And I take the hammer and the people flinch as it loudly crashes into the large terra cotta pot. And I hold up the tea bowl and I speak of Okakura Kakuzō and tea and beauty and the profound art of kintsukuroi. And all this time I weave in my own story of brokenness and the pathways and connections and beauty that God had hitherto brought forth from it…

And I believe it.
I do.

I believe there is beauty in the broken. I believe that God can use cracked pots. I believe that God can reform and repair and use our brokenness—no matter the cause of that brokenness—and bring beauty and encourage others and use it to ultimately draw all of us back to Him.

I believe it.
I find it beautiful.
I see the grace.
It encourages me.

But…

(You knew there was a “but” coming, didn’t you?)

So here’s the thing… I have this bad habit of taking what is beautiful and grace and meant for freedom and using it to bind and shackle myself again. Or I try to control it.

(And I’m pretty sure those two are connected.)

I came to the realization last April that I wanted to control my brokenness. I wanted to choose how my brokenness worked and looked to others. To be able to control what cracks and chips remain open as outlets of God’s grace and strength within, points where they can seep out and water and encourage others. To be able to choose which breaks get repaired in such a way that the scar is not noticeable. Even to have the say in what broken places are creatively and artistically repaired with golden lacquer kintsukuroi style so that others can see my beauty… er, uh, the hand of the One who did the beautiful work…

I hit that wall again last evening.

It was a dark weekend after a moody week in the midst of another round of difficult treatment after a rough (to put it mildly) year.

I’m tired and I’m worn.

“I suddenly had this realization: I actually don’t have any hope for healing,” I confided to a few friends. Not complete healing. Not on this side of heaven.

Oh, sure, I’m hoping for and doing what I can towards healing for the Lyme and for the Fibromyalgia and for the ear/dizzy issues (if they’re not related to one of those)… but I haven’t really thought towards or thought to hope for healing from allergies (respiratory or food) and sensitivities (scents, chemicals, other foods)…

And in my very-worn-down-ness and black-cloud-of-despairing, I realized that not only did I have no hope for those to change, but I don’t really want to have to live the rest of my life having to deal with them. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of there always being something.

One offered gentle counsel, trying to shift my eyes from myself to others who live real, full lives even with restrictions and limitations like allergies, diabetes, asthma and more, “it is possible to have a ‘normal life’ even with some difficulties.”

But inwardly I was like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Arms crossed. Pouting lips. Drowning out truthful voices with my loud complaints. Pushing away helpful hands that try to guide or comfort. Screaming my self-centered will: If I can’t have it the way I want it, what’s the point? 

Maybe it’s not so much that I want a “normal” life (even though that was the phrase I used initially), but I want an “ideal” life. My ideal. Life the way I picture it. With freedom and breathing room and not this minute-by-minute dealing with pain and fatigue and fog and dizziness and constantly needing to monitor my body, my energy, my time, my medicines, my environment.

And where there are challenges—seamless, effortless victory.
And where there is brokenness—beautiful, radiant healing.
And where there is tiredness—breathable, restorative rest.

And all of it immediate.
Or at least more immediate than taking weeks, months and years…

And preferably with an inspirational score in the background, with uplifting notes from percussion and brass and strings and reeds to keep me keeping on like a movie montage where all the tediousness of the trials is shortened into a few minutes of beautifully shot lighting and angles.

… So in this morning’s new light, with new mercies unfolding, I reflected back on my dark moods this weekend and remembered again that it is not up to me to control either my brokenness nor the when, how or way of my healing.

It is up to the Potter.

And Jesus asked of me this morning, “Do you trust Me? Will you trust Me? Will you relinquish control to Me? Will you allow Me to craft where the light and life seeps through and where the cracks are completely healed and where it is best to highlight what was broken? Do you trust Me?

And my response is both immediate and hesitant.
Full of faith and full of doubt.
Similar to the father in Mark 9, “I trust! Help my distrust!”
And the hymn-found words of Louisa M. R. Stead, “O for grace to trust him more!”

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