There was no crash, no sound that startled me into consciousness. There was no warning, just what appeared to be a million tiny shards of glass in the middle of the kitchen floor, and no one claimed responsibility.
I was angry that someone broke it without telling me. I was sad that I’d never be able to use it again. I was hurt that someone had been so careless with something I loved so much. I was afraid someone might cut themselves on one of the many sharp edges lying in the middle of my kitchen floor.
I stare at the broken dish and recognize it as a perfect metaphor for my station in life. I, too, am broken. Where I once felt like I had a very specific purpose, now I’m scattered about, feeling useless. Just like those tiny shards of glass, depending on how you choose to handle me, you just might get cut. I’m a mess.
But I realize it doesn’t matter how I fell from my place. I’m responsible for cleaning this up, just like the mess on the kitchen floor. So I grab the necessary tools, and carefully gather the pieces in a pile. Sure, I think of the good times that used to be, and wonder what magnificent piece I can get to replace what once was. I crawl on all fours trying to make sure there are no tiny bits left behind, and pray that nobody falls victim to any stray shards I might have missed.
I have been broken. I’m fairly certain I’m not whole now. But I have gathered all the pieces of myself, cleaned up to the best of my ability, and prayed over them.
If you are broken today, please know that you are not alone. I’m praying with and for you, that you find peace in your pieces.