Broken Pieces

You must be more careful, I scold myself through the tears, you almost missed that one. Pieces of the whole will never do; if He’s to put it back together again, He will need it all.

Bending low, I wrap trembling fingers around the missing sliver and swath it in an old, worn rag, then I tuck the tattered bundle carefully beneath my robe. This is for His eyes only. No one else must see.

I worry, perhaps He will not see me; will not care. If He does not restore my brokenness, all hope is gone. On bended knee I slip inside, and gingerly ease toward the light. It’s a busy place. There’s perfect order and calm, though couriers hustle and bustle careful to do His bidding.

I know He will be busy; He’s always on call - "Please do this . . . Will You help me here? . . . What should I do now? . . . Do You think that You could . . .?"

What if He doesn’t have time for me? I cautiously peek my head around the corner. Oh, how I love Him. What would my life be without Him? For just a moment I catch a glimpse, then the crowd closes and I lose sight of Him. I sigh and quietly bow my head. He IS too busy; I should have known.  A circle of greats surround him - a beloved president, an esteemed evangelist, a renowned speaker. They are movers and shakers, consulting Him on important business. They touch lives for eternity every day. I am so aware as I stand there that I am not them. I’m just me.

My face burns with shame. I shouldn’t have come. I’ve never saved a life, written a book, buried a martyred husband. Most days I’m just car-pooling to games, vacuuming carpets, doing the laundry. I reach beneath my garment, and touch the old, worn rag. I have nothing to offer but my broken pieces. Perhaps another day I’ll try. Swiping at the hot tears trickling down my cheeks, I stifle a sob as I turn to leave. That’s when I hear it. His voice caressing my name.

I turn, and He is there. All of Heaven senses the urgency of the moment, and stills. He leans intently forward, and with quiet authority speaks, “Come to me, My child.” I take first one step and then another. As I near, I feel the weight of His presence. He speaks, “Don’t be afraid,” and I bow in humble submission before Him.

“Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna, my Lord! Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honour, and power, and might be unto You, my God, for ever and ever.”

He whispers my name once more, and I lift my eyes to His. I read His love for me, holy and pure. He holds out His arms, and I run into His embrace. He folds me close, so close that I hear the cadence of the beating of His heart. It is beating for me.

“I have called your name,” He whispers, “You are mine.”

He knows me, and He loves me still. I weep deep sobs of sorrow and surrender. He pats my shaking shoulders, and gently rubs my back. Not once does He does scold or hurry me along. He does not blow out my flickering flame. He simply understands. I could stay there forever safe in His embrace. He is my refuge, and His everlasting arms my support.

My weeping spent, He holds my face in His hands and gently wipes my tears with His thumb. “Tell me, daughter, why do you weep?” He knows, I know He knows, but He bids me tell Him still. I need to speak my pain. Then He inclines His ear toward me.

“My heart is broken, Father.” I reach beneath my robe and give to Him the worn-out rag. He takes it from me with great care. "What have we here?"

Slowly He folds back the corners exposing the contents I’ve hidden there. I know that I can trust Him, still I tremble at the thought, What will He do now? Will it hurt for Him to heal? I know that He can do anything, but for just a moment I doubt. Maybe this one He can’t fix. I feel vulnerable in His presence; unworthy of His care. I stutter an apology, "Perhaps I should not have bothered you with something so small."

"Small? Why if it matters to you, it matters to Me."

I hold my breath, waiting for His words. "You trusted me with your pain. You could have carried this and walked on alone, but you brought it instead to Me. You’ve given Me your heart. Thank you. What is it that you would you have Me do?"

"Lord." I implore through my tears, "I want to be whole." So, He lovingly wraps His fingers around the broken pieces of my heart, and tenderly fits them together.

"Here," He says, "Good as new. Better actually- for once your heart’s been broken it’s much better than before. Now it beats with compassion for those who hurt. It beats with confidence because it’s known My touch. It beats with courage because it knows it never walks alone. It beats with assurance knowing that even if it shatters, I can fix it again."

Then He puts it back in place. I whisper my thanks, and rise from my knees. I can face my day. He’s quieted me with His love. I am His, and He rejoices over me with singing. I’ve been with the Father and I'll never be the same again.

© Ronda Knuth