"Man is born broken. He lives by mending. The grace of God is glue." Eugene O'Neill
"yes," i think as i read these words, re-quoted by anne lamott. i know broken. do i know the mending? i must, for i breathe and i have little ones and i am loved.
He mends as i wash dishes, scrape stuck-on food bits, even as he scrapes my heart raw in the desire to know He is real.
He heals as i correct boy-anger, seeing myself reflected back, hear the rebuke to be careful in my anger.
Pieces my broken heart as i seek counsel, one who points to a better Counselor, as i find a new rhythm to daily carrying a cross and what forgiveness looks like in the small things.
grace is mercy and cake extended to the friend who never showed yesterday but did today.
it is the wanting to push dirty kids away from the baby, but saying, "look, can't you see, he's smiling at you?" it's the powerful urge to protect little sister still being hurt by her parents, and trying to figure out my place in this new triangle. the glue is sticky and confounding, but it holds us together. it's a husband who knows my dark fears and sheds light and love, a soul-sister who calls at just the right time in my loneliness, a cloudy day when heat has been so oppressive.
the glue makes no sense, like a big Dada-ist collage of broken pieces and misshapen hearts, and some overlap and some have holes, and it all just works somehow because the glue is grace, invisibly, powerfully adhesive.