Broken and Whole

Sometimes you underline a sentence and then wish you hadn’t. When I underline, it is my invitation to again revisit the words. I underline a lot of Ann Voskamp; she demands a lot of revisiting. If you’ve read Ann too, you get it. This is one of those lines,

“Brokenness cracks open a soul so the power of God can crack the darkness in the world." –Ann Voskamp

I tend to resist the idea of brokenness as it applies to my life. I save ideas like brokenness for those who have suffered real pain, genuine loss, or unimaginable heartbreak. On some level I believe my hurts cannot compare to the hurts of others, so who am I to claim brokenness? Save that for the true heroes, the real saints of this world. The ones who have tasted a cup I have, by unexplained grace, yet to be passed. And still, as I read Ann’s words again, part of me says, “Yes Ann! I know of these cracks you write."

Maybe it is the ghastly Perfectionism in me that counteracts the hint of kinship sensed with the words just underlined? I don't know, but wherever its source, a voice in my head whispers: you haven’t suffered enough to make it count. You aren’t broken “perfectly enough” to claim His light shining through. These whispers bring me right back to the ugly Me vs. Them dichotomy.  Me, who has known easy life. Them, those who can claim true brokenness. It is here in this dichotomy where there is guilt crushing. Who am I to have such a charmed existence? Who am I to have escaped real pain?

Perhaps it is all the work I've done with my shame monster that triggers the voice of Truth which follows... 

The truth is, pain is pain, hurt is hurt.

And I wonder, how many times must I be reminded? When will I get this?

To deny suffering, no matter the degree, is to deny my own humanity. Pain is our shared condition. When skin breaks, blood comes forth. To say my brokenness doesn’t matter- because others have suffered far worse, is to say that some brokenness isn’t worthy of compassion. The moment I decide some pain is more worthy of compassion than others is the moment I make myself judge. It is the moment I steel my heart, instead of letting light pour through the cracks.

I don’t want to play judge and I don’t want to add to the darkness of the world.

This is the reality I tend to ignore- my hurts matter. Because all hurts matter. Everyone has suffered, will suffer or is suffering right this instant and the best, no- the only way to let Light come is to acknowledge the hurt so healing can happen. Healing happens when we finally say, “Help. This brokenness hurts.”

So I sit still with this. What is the broken I am too prideful to admit? I’ve learned if you sit still long enough with a question, genuinely seeking revelation- awareness eventually comes forth in some form. Sometimes s  l  o  w  l  y, sometimes unexpectedly, other times in a rush. This morning, as I sat in the quiet with the sun rising over the horizon, it was a flood. Deep, real feelings poured forth. I miss my family. I miss my mom and my dad and my brothers and their beautiful wives. I miss my nieces I hardly know and I miss the life I anticipated having with them.

Even in the midst of this emotional outpouring and even as I now type, I still have to fight back the voice saying that this hurt of mine isn’t true suffering. That I am weak and lame and ungrateful. But today, in the face of those lies I decide, NO. Hurt is hurt and this hurts. It is okay that this still makes me cry and that it makes me sad and that it makes my heart feel broken. I do not have to pretend otherwise. I am doing no favors to no one with my denial.

I am not weak, lame or ungrateful. I am a human with brokenness. There is room enough at the table for all of our hurts, mine included. Inhale child, next exhale. I realize I have been holding my breath, even as I now remember. Here is some truth I need to breathe in like air:

There is enough healing to go around because there is enough Light for all the cracks.

In this acknowledgement of truth I am given reminders of how Light has come through my cracks- in all of my longing for family and sickness for home I have been gifted such great community. Some community I worked to create, others I was simply invited graciously into. There are so many beautiful souls I have had the pleasure of growing with. Cherished people who now have their lives all tangled up with mine in the best sorts of ways.  People I never would have met had life turned out as expected.

I still miss my parents and siblings and often wish I were there rather than here. Not in spite of this, but because of this my heart beats undeniably for new people to call family, for new places to make a home. Not because I don’t hurt with longing for my family and home, but because I do. Desperately. The broken places of my heart, the places where I have felt displacement are the very places my heart beats to draw others in. It was when I was the one packing up boxes, yet was she who felt abandonment which left the exact scar in my soul that pleads for none to feel left out. My heart grieves for the lonely and groans to give them a home because I too have tasted this cup, this serving of humanness. My slice of suffering is exactly where Christ has called me to compassion. 

The lonely? The homesick? These are my people. 

  

Would I feel any such compassion if I hadn’t known these cracks so well myself? It feels intense, and yet this desire to help alleviate need pales in comparison to what the gospels say Christ experienced while his feet walked with living, breathing, hurting humans:

The English word for “compassion” is far too weak to express the emotion that moved Jesus. The Greek verb splagchnizomai used in all these texts is derived from the noun splagchnon, which means intestines, bowels, entrails or heart, that is to say, the inward parts from which strong emotions seem to arise. The Greek verb therefore means a movement or impulse that wells up from one’s very entrails, a gut reaction. That is why English translations have to resort to expressions like ‘he was moved with compassion or pity’ (NIC, NVSR, JB) or he felt sorry (JB) or ‘his heart went out to them’ (NEB). But even these do not capture the deep physical and emotional flavor or the Greek world for compassion. That Jesus was moved by some such emotional is beyond all reasonable doubt. (Albert Nolan, Jesus Before Christianity. As quoted in Brennan Manning’s, A Glimpse of Jesus)

Anytime our brokenness leads us to extend love and give comfort to another’s hurts, we are living our faith and allowing light to flood the cracks. It is mystery, and it is fact. No wonder Darkness wants us to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Of course Darkness suggests we steel our hearts. Compassion is borne from a heart that is willing and able to feel the hurts. And compassion is the antidote to darkness.

It is not weakness to need help or to acknowledge a hurt. The bravest thing one can do is say: I too have been broken. This is real bravery for in the truth of our pain- we are letting Light in through the cracks. And Light is always an invitation for healing. Healing not just for ourselves, but for the world. Healed people cannot help but want to heal because this is the undeniable nature of compassion. And if there is one thing humanity can never, ever have enough of it is compassionate healers. Healers who know the Light because they have let it in through the very cracks of their one broken heart.

In honor of a dear sweet Sister who has shown me and so many people what it means to let light flood all the cracks life offers up, please consider donating to this beautiful organization. Please help me tell her Happy Birthday and THANK YOU:  CLICK WITH YOUR COMPASSION HERE

In Him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. John 1:4-5 (NIV)