Broken

I once wrote a book called "Bent Not Broken".
The title was a lie.
I was broken.

Broken, broken, broken.

Like an old-fashioned thermos flask that had been dropped - I was okay on the outside but the slightest shake revealed the shimmering shards inside.
Broken.

Not the pretty kind of broken, nor the wee chip that elephant glue would mend, but ugly, nasty, dangerous, mixed up broken.

Broken like a box of crystal glasses that has been drop-kicked then gift-wrapped. Don't hug it too hard to your chest - the gift is broken, and dangerous.

Broken like a heart, like a vow, like a bone.

Broken like the psalmist who wrote:

I am poured out like water,
all my bones are out of joint;
My heart is like wax;
it is melted within my chest;
My strength is dried up like a potsherd,
and my tongue sticks to my jaws;
you lay me in the dust of death. (Ps 22 14-15)

And still broken.

Still smashed up inside, still trying with the help of God to straighten my bends, to heal my brokenness, to fix me up from the inside out.

No more plastering over the cracks, no more smoke and mirrors but bare raw broken wounds that weep for divine healing.

Heal us God, give us guidance, for the ways of the world are broken.

Broken.

Broken.