Rent the Pain in Two

A Story, faith, Listening When He Speaks, Poetry

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

where I

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. . . .






3 thoughts on “Rent the Pain in Two”

  1. Ahhhh, so you wrote! Brava! This is a beautiful window into your heart~so glad to read it. I’ve missed your words! Much love.

  2. jodyo70 says:

    It’s been awhile since I’ve visited, Darlene. Your poetic words are so powerful. God bless and keep you well.

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