A Destroyed Glass, a Shattered Phone, and a Stretching Arm- June 2, 2014

Tonight, I smashed a martini glass from the dollar store.

It's kind of healing, smashing things.

But I didn't just throw it to the ground.

I stood on the little wall, stared at the concrete, and declared my reasoning.

"Freaking A, I want them back!!"

Chuck. Smash. No sound.

Or at least, I thought so.

But then I realized that I wasn't wearing my hearing aid.

"You had a lot of aggression in your throw. It was very loud."

I wish I could have heard it.

I stared at the destroyed glass.

It kind of felt good, seeing something broken.

Later on, the phone fell from my hand.

The screen shattered...

It's 11:30 at night. And I am tired.

But not sleepy tired. It's more than that.

It's exhaustion tired.

Tired of trying to be strong. Tired of trying to be ok. Tired of the constant bills and reminders. Tired of missing them. Tired the hole in my heart. Tired of feeling sorry for myself. Tired of thinking about the future. Tired of avoiding the future.

Tired of not knowing.

It doesn't hurt to breathe. Breathing actually feels good.

It doesn't hurt to move. Moving allows my mind to run.

It doesn't hurt to be around people. Socializing is a great distraction.

It hurts to think. It hurts to feel.

Sometimes, it's ok to break down.

So many people want to help. So many people reach out. And you take what you can, and you extend when you have the physical and mental capacity to reach. But you only have two arms and two hands, and there's so many hands that you can take. So much help. It's almost too much.

The reaching is feeling longer and farther away. It's not even reaching anymore. It's stretching.

And sometimes, it's the stretching that scares me.

I take that back.

It doesn't scare me.

It just plain exhausts me.

How much more must I stretch? I see the goal, and I'm moving. And not getting anywhere. It almost seems that the more I move forward, the farther away the goal is. And the farther away the goal, the fuzzier the image becomes. And the fuzzier the image becomes, the darker the hope is.

I know you're there. I know it's possible.

But I can't do it alone.

The darker the hope, the scarier the future becomes. The scarier the future becomes, the weaker the faith.

I'm not perfect.

I'm not even whole.

I'm scared to make those mistakes.

I don't want to disappoint you...

The weaker the faith, the more I realize...

I'm broken.

I need help.

I realize that this is going to define me. My life is different. It will never be the same again. A broken vessel can be fixed, but it's never that same vessel. It has its cracks. It has its chips.

How is it that the hands of the Divine Potter allows that?

I think He loves broken things.

Not in the sense of loving to destroy things.

It's more in the sense of loving to fix things.

I always used to think that He loved me when I did everything right. When I knew all the answers in seminary. When I obeyed the commandments.

But, I think He loves me even more when I wasn't doing everything right, and I came back. I think He loves me when I'm here, trying to push forward, and praying... no, begging for some sort of comfort, knowing and understanding that it's the only comfort that will make me whole.

Because that is when I put aside my pride, and my fear, and just allow Him to fix me.

And gosh dang it, I need a lot of fixing.

 NOTHING in this world, no matter how great it is at the moment, is going to give us that kind of comfort that we all so desire. And though I'm surrounded by many hands, there's only One hand that I really should reach for.

Or stretch for.

You can't fix a vase with Elmer's glue and tape.

We are all broken. Imperfect.

And He loves us all the more for it.

It's now about 12:15 in the morning.

I'm broken.

But not destroyed.