B is for…


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.

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1 Comment

  1. How much saner the world would be if everyone always left open the possibility that they may be wrong, in both fact and value, next best thing is to admit that my neighbor’s value may be just as worthy as mine. To play on an old chestnut, maybe God made the platypus in order to show that what works, what is acceptable, sometimes comes in the oddest packages. The platypus is something which is not broken. (And don’t go all Darwin on me for that… It’s a metaphor.)

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