Shattered

I bought two mirrors today. And, shortly thereafter, I dropped large weights on them, and broke them into dozens of pieces.

Then, as if I had changed my mind, I began to piece them into a mirror again. This time, fragmented and puzzled together. Analogies came flooding through my mind, and it was as if gold had been struck.

A broken mirror is like life. Sometimes pieces are whole and clear cut. Sometimes shards are everywhere. But if you look closely, you can always see something good.

A broken mirror is like the way we see things sometimes. If you look at it one way, you just see hundreds of broken pieces. Pain. Heartbreak. Shards. But, if you change the focus, you see the big picture. Your reflection. Which is exactly what we are supposed to be. Reflections. Imperfect and crushed, but reflections nonetheless.

A broken mirror is like sin. When we have sinned, all we see is a smudged, blurry reflection. But, when a strong cleaner is applied, and the mirror is completely wiped, a clear, strong image is visible.

A broken mirror is like a broken heart. It can be pieced back together.

A broken mirror is the way our hearts are supposed to be, open to rearrangement and organization.

Let your heart be broken. Because God will put you back together.

Shattered, but whole.

Grown Up: A Poem?

I'm not overly poetic. But, poetry is it's own entire realm of writing, and since I strive to be a well rounded writer, I have taken a stab at it. Read at your own risk.

Baby. Soft, cuddly, cute.

Do you know how fast the years go?

Now in preschool, drawing on the walls.

Do you realize how soon you'll be grown?

Elementary school daydreams, hopscotch, and hair bows.

Remember how soon grown up things come.

Junior higher. Awkward, lanky, four too many limbs.

Soon you'll be tall, slender, and mature.

Now in high school, almost old.

Recollect times past, all these memories hold.

Remember the first day of school.

Moreover, remember the freedom of innocence,

and the bliss of young-ness.

Never forget that life is what you make it.

Make it worth it.

Sorta Like Sand

Sand. It comes from years and years of waves pounding on the rocks. Currents, tides, and other rocks crash, pummel, and smooth rocks into small smooth stones. The process continues, and the rocks soon become tiny little rock fragments. Eventually, just a speck of rock is left. And that's the sand. And, when the process is completed hundreds of thousands of time, we get a long stretch of sandy beach. Which is soft and pleasant.

Sometimes life is hard. Sometimes pain is necessary. Sometimes we want to give up, because everything is crashing in on us, and making things all together too hard. But giving up isn't worth it. Because, in the end, something good will come of it. If we keep pushing on. And pushing on. And pushing on.

Sorta like sand.

Big Picture

I mow the lawn. A lot. There are many parts to this exercise (literally—legs, arms...).

First, coaxing the 20-year-old mower from its nook. Usually this involves a mighty yank. The wheels complain across the floor before it's all the way out.

Then, priming and starting it. In other words, pushing a little squishy thing lots of times, before yanking on the cord thingy (I'm not too particular about my mower part names), and hoping that it starts on one of the first twenty tries.

After the little monster has roared to life, the real fun begins. If you caught that it's 20 years old, you've hopefully guessed that it's not self propelled. Thus, when just shy of an acre of lush grass awaits the blade, you've got a workout coming, in the form of two and a half hours of trudging.

Back and forth. And back and forth. And back and forth. And there and back again. And... You get the picture. Before long, I'm soaked in sweat, and coated with grass and grime. And I've still got five eighths of the yard to go.

After two gasoline refills, and lots of clogged grass incidents, the lawn is mowed. Only then does the beauty of the big picture come out.

Under the beating sun, in the process of mowing, the back and forth stripes always look wavy. Or crooked. Or just plain bad (and, don't get me wrong, sometimes they are just plain bad). But, when everything is finished, and the whole yard is cut, the finishing effect is usually quite pleasing.

That's the way life is. Sometimes, we make mistakes. Big mistakes. Or little mistakes. Or, averagely sized mistakes. Mistakes, anyways. In the middle of them, when we're tired of living, and trudging, and just barely lasting, things look terrible. But when we're out of the mess, and we look back and see the whole business, we realize that God used all those little mistakes to make one big picture.

And that is beautiful.

Awestruck

Life is little glimpses of glory.  A waft of fresh mountain air, a blazing sunset shoreline, a black sky full of radiant stars.

I'm all wonder—how can little me serve a God this big? A God who whispers the winds into existence. Traces the hills into being. Even collects the dust, and forms mankind.

He knows me. He loves me. He cares for me. And for multitudes of others, as well. So many little people, one great God.

Realization—I can serve Him, because He lets me. Not because of my great merit, but because of His great love.

And by that, I am amazed.

Awestruck, actually.

Soul Stuff

It rings in our ears. Harmonizes with our souls. Makes us forget that which troubles our hearts, and darkens our countenances.

First, a slight twinkling in the distance, only the faintest whisper of what is to come. It grows louder, forming a beat and a pattern. Unique. The song has been formed. Now, identifiable, it continues, sweeping us gently into the stream of rhythm. More and more it fills our ears, less mild, but still pleasing. It pulls us along, and becomes our life. Our story. We become part of that music. It lingers in our ears, and echos in our heads. It begins to compose our thoughts, and even our emotions.

Music.

It's soul stuff.

Then there was Joy

A furrowed brow. Eyes too ashamed to make contact. A heart, ripped and bleeding from the pain of sin.

Forced prayer. Resignation of a grudge. Pouring out of the heart to One bigger, and better, and infinitely more powerful.

Hope renewed. The ability to smile regained. The sun, shining out, pouring grace and cheer to all.

Joy, returned. Never underestimate the power of the creator of Joy. He is good.

He is God.

Empty?

Wrinkled cheeks. Watery eyes. Shaking hands, bony and no longer smooth, worn with time and age. She's called grandma. And she's gone. Or is she?

She's had a mentally debilitating disease for years. She can't remember her children. Her husband is but a memory. She lives every day the same, and yet every day is new to her. A new book to read, new people to meet, new activities. And she's not gone. Right?

Inside her shell, there is a soul. Alive. Present. Crying out to be known. Just as there is in the sleeping babe, the hungry native, the homeless woman. A soul, striving for the knowledge of God. A soul longing to be known.

And every once in a long while, for only a moment, that soul shines through the deceptive shell. One must simply watch enough to see it. Because, she's not empty. She's lived life to the fullest, loving, serving, praying.

So watch. Because she's not empty. Because she's full.

Roller Coaster

Things don't always go the way we expect them to.

For instance, roller coasters twist, and turn, and screech, and fly, and we never expect them to go where they go. That's what makes the ride so fun! We want to be hurled into action, spun in circles, turned upside down. That's the thrill of the adventure.

Life is just like a roller coaster. We get ready. Buckle up. And, before we know it, we're hurled into situations that take our most intense concentration not to scream, vomit, or cry.

Then, when all the loops seem to have passed, we climb the huge hill. We go slower, and slowerr, and slowerrrr, until finally, when all hope seems lost, and further ascent seems impossible, we reach the crest of the hill, and are thrown down the slope, into the valley below. After this, another series of impossible twists and turns, and loops and curls.

Soon, we're all settled in, and ready to ride forever. Either that, or too numbed to protest. That's when we coast to a peaceful stop, and are told that it's time to buy new tickets. I don't know where that fits into the analogy, but that's up to you to decide.

Life's like a roller coaster. Right?

Loved

She was a simple girl. Cheerful, friendly, kind, open. Then, she began to be rebuffed. Smiles were not returned, friendly hugs were accepted coldly, attempts at outreach were squelched. She soon became withdrawn, silent, and sad, rarely ever smiling.

Until one day, we found her. And pursued her. And were persistently friendly. She started coming to Bible studies. Her questions surprised us all. She started to openly desire love. 

The smiles still didn’t come often, but when they graced her face, they shone forth with genuine happiness. Her pain isn’t all healed, but her heart is mending.

Because all she wanted was love, and she got it.

Give it.