Handle my broken? You’re
kidding, right? I’ll sweep, gentle-like,
sharp shards of glass; replace
with glue, a mug’s cracked handle; tape
a page, nearly tore in two — but staunch
the wounds of my own heart? It’s
not possible, plausible,
sensible that I’m worth
any effort — now,
is it? Besides, I’ve locked
the door, bolted it secure, closed
and all is forgotten because the pain inside
is trapped, strapped, forced back
tight so nothing else can rent me in two — you get
that, right? As long as I don’t
grasp, shake, twist, or turn the handle
never, ever, not ever — won’t it remain
hidden, out of sight? .
Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me. (Revelation 3:20 NKJV)
He stands and knocks. He doesn’t force entry into our lives, to our souls, to our wounded hearts.
He waits for an invitation. From. Me. You.
Now it sometimes feels as if I’m
naked – sitting here
at the table with the King of kings.
Swung open is the door, my pounding heart
presses hard against this
transparent chest of mine. His cloak
of Truth and righteousness, lined
with mercy and grace protects me
when over me, I let Him drape it,
to cover where I deny
or worse yet, apply my own self-hate.
Do you see me? Really, really
see? I’m a different me – freer
stronger. God sent the red-hot
lies and the liar straight to
hell. He swapped out the dastardly
dark for my despair. Together the King
and I untangle knots and stitch tight
slashes against my soul.
These here scars no longer
mark defeat, but define His
entry to my heart – to the place
handed Him my broken.
Memorial Day. A day to honor the fallen, the dead and buried. I know this well. Although back on American soil, my own father perished from wounds of Vietnam and whiskey vapors. I was but a child, but I’ve felt the impact my whole life. There are folks among us, wounded, some near ’bout dead – they walk, they crawl, they wheel, they saunter, they glide, they ride, they look normal, they appear wounded beyond repair. And more often than not, they hide. .
What have you, yes you, done to guide and show and love and share and care? Maybe just invite them in. They, like the greatest Him, don’t barge, they wait. .
Attention soldiers, especially you mister T, my “thanks” will never do what you need and my mere words will never heal your wounds, that is why upon bent knees, I continually plead the Lord for you. And mister T, thanks for how you patted my head as I bawled on your shoulder yesterday after church. You took those God-given hands of yours and you gave some God-given love. Some healing. Some balm. . . .