A Broken Place

A Broken Place, exclusively Skirt in the Kitchen

This might be the best place to be.  It might not be such a good place, but it’s the right place for a given time.  It’s where we’re forced to go to at certain times in our lives.  Whether we want to be or not–most certainly not of want–we have to be in t h i s very spot.  It may be where it doesn’t seem like we can be useful to ourselves or to others, much less to God, but on the contrary.

It can be a lonely corner or an open dessert.  We might fight it, even being all alone in such a place where we think no one is listening to our whims and cries but the sorrow that is within because of the struggle.  It conforms to anger.  It may get cold; it might be scorching and blistering.  It can be an empty feeling–but it doesn’t have to be.  It can lead to the fullest of being, right here, where there is brokenness.  It’s always had potential.

It calls our attention, it wants to claim our livelihood, and it begs to linger until it breaks through thickness so it can mend again–to give back life.  It loves desolation for a while.  It’s needed for our own good. It hurts.  It aches.  It scars.  It leaves visible traces of chips and stains, even bruises–for a while–possibly forever.  It can cut us open, again, if need be–if it has to.

It’s the power of the will of the spirit, and of a higher calling, that stirs to dwell inside a soul that has the gumption to tip back over in mad determination to stand up again–broken pieces, and all.  It’s meant to be a marvel.  It’s a broken spirit that learns how to appreciate–again–how to love completely–again–how to get a little stronger again and again.  It builds character, layer upon layer.  It brings healing that leads to salvation and longevity of life.  Maybe the two go hand in hand.  Are they blended?  It is undying.  It is magnificent!  It is worthy. It is great.  It’s a giant might of effort to carry through the burden of brokenness. It’s gutsy.

It’s got no other way to go but to lift itself back up, to pick itself back up, this heavy load of a broken cup.  It’s got to.  It’s got to be filled again.  It’s got to figure out how to be bonded as one again.  It longs to be filled.  It wants to be useful.  It craves to hold what is solid or liquid to be drank and fed for nourishment and stability. It needs its mentor.  It is reminded of its value.  And sometimes, it’s mentor is within–not on the outside.

It’s got to go through silence.  It has to listen to be heard.  It needs humbleness, truth, consistency, and adoration.  It’s breaking down walls, barriers, and it waits for a hand to steady an edge in order for it to stand upright again.  This cup needs lifting.  It finds out who holds it and what strength it has for its own endurance.It may not be perfect, and it may not resemble perfection, but it’s perfectly standing again because it is useful and whole again.  It had to go through its brokenness to be of genuine service rather than a cup that set prettily on a shelf for occasional use in hopes that it would never be broken.