The pieces I hold in my hands

     About a year ago, I was in a really terrible place.  In the middle of the darkest part of that place, a very dear lady used a word that has become a developing image in my mind.  She used the word "mosaic."  This image has been really helpful and powerful.  I'm not just some broken mess that God will put back together the way I used to be, left as a fractured version of what I once was.  God is going to use all the broken pieces to make something completely new.  He will redeem each broken piece, perfectly place it in new fashion, held in place with the glue of His faithfulness and grace and love.  Unlike being put back together the way I once was, this mosaic, glued together with God's redemption, is whole despite being made of a lot of brokenness.  Each piece is there.  Each piece tells it's own story.  But the story of redemption and healing is told by the whole work of art as the mosaic is seen in it's entirety.

     Last week, this imagery developed further in my mind.  I have been really battling between knowing that what happened is not my fault and believing what I know.  As I spoke with the same lady who gave me the image of a mosaic, our conversation moved the imagery forward.  Now I hold all those broken pieces of me in my hands...the very pieces God would use to make the mosaic of me.  I know what those pieces are.  I know what they hold in them.  There are so many, a few overflow pieces have fallen out of my grasp.  God has been working with those shards of brokenness so gently and faithfully, and I have seen the hard work of healing begin in those small fragments.  The bulk of the broken is still in my hands though.  I hold them tightly closed and can feel them hurting me, all those sharp edges digging in as I squeeze them in an effort to protect something though I'm not really sure what.  I found myself realizing I need to be willing to open my hands...to see the broken, to see the hurt, to offer it all up to God and let Him be with me in every broken piece as He redeems each piece in the making of the mosaic.  It's hard to heal something I won't even let be seen or known.

     

     I didn't really know where to go from there though.  I just kept thinking about it all--how far I've come, how God has been faithful up to now, how I have always managed to get through the hard places I never thought I'd emerge from, how keeping these pieces in my hands was hurting me.  Then I went to a ladies gathering at my church that focused on prayer.  There were two ladies who led it.  One of them, in the beginning, described the picture she has in her mind as God's invitation to come to Him in prayer.  She described God sitting on the throne sustaining the universe with His power while at the same time she runs into the throne room, dirty yet fearless, where He pulls her onto His lap.  She is, after all, adopted into His family as His daughter.  He wants to hear what is on her heart that has sent her running to her Father, and seeing His power and knowing His goodness, she can pour out her heart to Him, and He listens and cares and loves her.  

     I could see it.  When it was me in that picture, though, I was entering the throne room dirty and bloody with fists clenched.  I haven't figured out the fearless thing, so I cower, mostly with shame, while He looks at my hands and takes them in His...you know, the hands that bear the scars of the depths of His love for me, the ones that remind me He understands, the ones that were pierced so my broken pieces could be made new.  He asks me to trust Him.  When I remember who He is and His character, I know He is trustworthy.  

     Yet I find myself like my own kids who come to me with scraped up hands sometimes.  When they fear the cleaning of the wound will be too painful, they hesitate while I assure them I can only help them if they show me what's been hurt.  I see in me the same hesitation as I fear the pain to come in opening my hands to the One I know is trustworthy.  I waver between opening my hands and closing them once more.  I remind myself daily of who God is, of His faithfulness and goodness, and I try to open my hands once more and trust that He will meet me in each broken piece as I keep working towards healing, walking this journey with Jesus and the people He has walking this with me here.  Now the battle between what I know and what I believe is a little less fierce as I begin to believe what I know.  So I fight to open my hands...my hands ever so gently cradled in the hands that were broken for my healing.

Hands

I hold all these broken pieces in my hands

I know what they hold but don't want to see them

So I clench my fists tight while the sharp edges cut me

As blood flows from the wounds I pretend that I don't see

Trembling as I grasp these shattered pieces I've never named

I fold in on myself as I wear this crushing shame

Yet You look past my shame and welcome me with steadfast love

You know the brokenness I hold and still call me to come

Tenderly You wrap my hurting hands in Yours

You remind me who You are and ask me to trust You once more

As I close my eyes tears fall to the ground

Safe with You I slowly open my hands as my heart pounds

Willing to give You these jagged shards of abuse

Believing You, my Abba my Healer, will know what to do

And as I crumble under the weight of this grief

You draw me close in Your arms and You weep with me