We’re all broken.
We’re all a mess.
We have so much wrong in our lives.
I think about how much I have wrong. How much I have been wronged in this life. And I think about how much those who’ve wronged me have been wronged. I ask God to see people as He sees them in attempt to not be angry. In a moment of thinking that’s what He wants me to ask. And then I do. I do see them, maybe just a glimpse… the way He does. And I realize they are just… broken…
I think about all the people I know who have truly, truly been wronged. I think about all of my online and real life friends who have experienced loss like I cannot imagine. They have lost children. I walk through the pain with them, even if they don’t know it, praying for and with them. I pray for their other children, I pray for their quiet moments, I pray for their marriages, I pray for things I do not understand. I pray for their faith.
And mine wavers.
I doubt. I ask how and why. Again. I’ve been here before. Doubting and asking and thinking “just rescue us, Lord.” And those doubts lead to … “If you were good… if you were just…” And those thoughts lead to… “are You real? Is any of this really worth it?”
I swim in the brokenness. I see the sinking ship everyone (e.ver.y.one) is on. I see them sinking. Flailing. I feel my own limp. And mine isn’t even inflicted as deeply as I see others. But it’s still a limp. I’m still not right. I’m still… broken. Legitimately broken.
There’s something about it being legitimate. There’s something about the validity of my pain. My pain being hurtful even when it doesn’t look as awful as someone else’s pain. There’s something about looking deep at my hurt. Looking at it head on and saying, “That hurts. It’s real. And I hurt.”
I look at my hurt and realize out of my hurt I do and will continue to hurt others. I hear so many mamas say,”I hope I don’t scar my kids.” I used to hear myself say that to my husband. And hear him say it to me. After all these years of parenting we realize now we are going to scar them. We are broken people. Raising kids. I said the other day under the crushing weight of having snapped at my kids again for being… kids… “I just wish I wouldn’t be this way with them.” And my husband said,” What way? Yourself?” And we laughed through my tears, but then quietly I said,”Yes, exactly. I wish I wouldn’t be myself….” And he agreed, he said he tries all the time to be something different. Something… better. Not so… broken.
And we sit in silence wishing for … something … more … different.
Knowing that our brokenness will lead to the brokenness of our children. It’s inevitable really. Even if they don’t hold it against us, they will be as broken as we are. Limping in their own ways. It’s hard to watch and know that they will not dance as beautifully as we once hoped.
I had a best friend in junior high who always said she would not have children. None. Ever. Because she didn’t want to bring them into such an awful world. And she hasn’t any. And I wonder if she’s any less broken for it. I doubt it.
Because we’re all broken. We’re all limping.
When I look at how many friends I have online that have experienced the pain I mentioned before of losing a child I ache. And I think why do I know so many people that have suffered that special kind of pain. And I realize it’s because the internet has made my world smaller. I know more people than the few that I can see from my front porch. As my view and vision expand, as I see the people I’ve asked God to open my eyes to, I see also their pain. And I groan. I cry for them, these friends I’ve never met.
The amount of pain that I know of personally is a sea. There is an ocean of pain in just my view. And I consider that. I ponder why it is. And I realize I see more pain because I see more people. And as I fight against being consumed by the others’ pain, my dad always said when I was kid,”You can’t carry the whole world on your shoulders, girl.”, I realize that God’s view is much much larger than mine. He sees it all. All of that pain. And His words from Romans 8:26 come to mind:
26 In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.
And I doubt.
And I question.
It’s a chasing of the wind. It’s nothing new. There’s a reason that I love Ecclesiastes so. Because it’s all futile. Chasing after more wisdom, asking more questions only brings more knowledge of more pain.
But at the end of it what remains in my doubt and my striving is the decision to just trust Him. I have to choose with all the strength of a grown man to become as small as a child. To trust and obey. To choose a childlike faith. To come to Him. Choice takes great strength.
And so, at the end of it all, I have to accept that we’re all broken. We’re all hurting. I have to accept that the hurt is not of Him. I have to choose the knowledge of simple faith. I have to choose Him again.
And the biggest choice, the hardest step to take back into faith (and I’ve been taking these same back and forth steps of faith for almost 20 years now) is to trust that He loves me. In all my brokenness. He loves me.
He loves us.
He loves you.
With a love you don’t understand. A love you can’t comprehend. That you didn’t and couldn’t earn. When I sit crushed in my own sin I have to choose again that it isn’t my goodness that draws His eyes to me. He looks at me with love.
I am enough.
It is enough. All that I do and don’t do. It’s enough.
Because I choose Him. He made me enough.
And so… we are all broken. You and me. We are always going to be broken.
But I choose Him.
I choose love.