Life Has A Way of Unraveling (Part 2)

Sometimes you unexpectedly meet a person and you find yourself face to face with what it means to be broken.  This day, four years ago, I met our firstborn son in a most unexpected way and since that time, brokenness has been my theme.  

Our firstborn, if he were here with us, would turn 4 today.  Through Him who creates and gives life, Parker’s existence is who made Adam a father, me a mother, and whose absence has left us hollowed out at times. 

Four years ago today, the thought that we would conceive, carry, and deliver a baby who would never come home with us hadn’t crossed our minds.  But then it all came crashing in.

We lost a child and although every story is different, every loss is the same. There is a commonness among the bereaved ~ the hurt of separation, the brutal shock of this fallen world, and the tender longing ache of sadness. 

And then there’s the survival part.

We are wounded and broken and sometimes –  a lot of times – people flee.  They see us coming from a mile away, like we bear the plague of death and brokenness.  They just don’t know what to do with us…what to say or not say. We are a mess and people just can’t handle it.  And that’s ok. Because we can’t either.  Neither you nor I can rescue anybody; we need only to hold tightly to Him who is our Rescuer.

So. My life hasn’t turned out like I expected.  Maybe yours hasn’t either.

Who here hasn’t had some measure of pain…perhaps even suffering? 

Suffering can breed cynicism, give birth to hate, and drive despair.  And pain?  It begs us to believe that only action can end our ache, when actually, only God can.  After Parker, we desperately wanted to make some permanent decisions.  Choices that would gravely impact us because we felt a gnawing desire to relieve the pain we felt –to relieve it in our own way.  And we were wrong.  I was wrong. Whole-heartedly, ashamedly, should-have-known-better, plain and simply… wrong.  There was no amount of sadness, bargaining, wallowing, screaming, sleeping, talking, tears.  NO AMOUNT OF ANYTHING WAS GOING TO CHANGE THIS OUTCOME.  Parker was gone.  The brink of death can break thick, ironclad chains of wrong.  Of pride, selfish ambition, doubt, and scorn.  I could nurse resentment or I could be miserably broken in the hands of the Potter. 

And what of this brokenness?  I say, Light can only get into broken things.

 

I wish I could say this was easy – the making, the breaking, the being-remade – but that wouldn’t be true.  The making of one’s whole life takes time and the sanctifying takes God.  It takes courage and bravery and mostly {read: only} the Holy Spirit to listen to the constant steady tick of God’s timing—to hear Him over the loud and, oftentimes damaging beat of our own fears. 

So life has a way of unraveling at times.  Chipping away at us as it cracks us down the center, leaving us vulnerable with rough, raw edges.  Nothing comes to me that isn’t already sifted through the Father’s fingers.  In His refinement, He’s placed me here.  His peace and comfort, the clay and the mud are a balm to our brokenness and a slave upon our soul. 

Love and joy have a way of tagging along, too.

After sitting for four years and adding two more babies (Parker’s younger siblings), my vessel still tells of the broken.   Worn out and cried out - it carries those scars.  And when there are scars that can’t and shouldn’t and that you wouldn’t want to be erased even if you could…when there are scars, all you can do is write more of love onto them.  More joy, more of Him onto them.

And it’s possible.  Love and joy – abiding in Him, it’s always surprisingly possible.