I’ve broken a leg. A finger. A nose. (All mine…I don’t think I’ve broken other people’s bones.) I’ve had a broken heart. However, though I’ve sometimes had little money, I’ve never really experienced being broke. My car’s been broken. My home was once broken into. Not long ago a spoke snapped and my bike became broke.
Some breaks are obvious; most are hidden. But we’re all broken. All. Sometimes, for we’re all fools too, we glance toward others and imagine perfection and contentment. In them. Not in us. But this I know as much as I know anything, all are broken. I believe the ones who admit it welcome healing: the are scarred and scared, but boldly grinning. I believe the ones that deny brokenness invite even deeper wounds.