Every Crack

I hate losing things and breaking things. I really do. It feels foolish. A waste of money. Another trip to the store to buy a replacement. I actually pride myself on never losing things, not even an earring.

But sometimes my fingers slip, and it happens. 

The other day I was sitting on my deck, attempting to ward off the swarms of Florida mosquitoes with my little clay incense holder. Wafts of citronella streamed through the decorative holes. I balanced it on the edge of my chair, getting the scent waves as close to my legs as possible.

And then I somehow forgot it was even there at all. I stood up in a rush. The round clay mosquito defender crashed onto the wood floor. Three pieces. I looked down at them. How annoying. 

I scooped up the fragments and took them inside for a little project. A glue gun and steady hands might do the trick. I carefully ran a line of glue on the edges and wedged the broken pieces into place. Almost a perfect fit.

No one might notice the restoration at all, unless they looked closely. 

I think of how many times God has mended my broken heart. How he sees each crack and squiggly line that tells the story of where he put me back together.  

He knows the fragments that fell when I was just a kid, and he knows exactly where one jagged piece ends and the next begins from the times he’s pieced me back together.

It’s kind of beautiful, actually. The knower of my suffering. The keeper of my heart. 

He never tosses my shards to the side, assuming a replacement would be better. Easier. He takes the time to delicately collect each piece and put me back together. Sorrow, suffering, hurt…I’m still worthy of being tended to. A perfect love.

Nothing could ever replace one of his children. He leaves the 99 to go back for the one, because you see, there’s no replacement that will due. 

A mended piece shows love and care. It might have chunky glue residue and crawling cracks, but what a picture of the value it held to be worth that type of intricate mending.

He loves us. The hurt and the pain only draw his hands closer to heal. 

So in the brokenness, feel the Father’s craftsmanship studying the best way to bring his child back to wholeness. We’re pretty special to Him, I’d say.