Yesterday I had lunch with a friend. Well maybe brunch. Coffee minus the coffee plus cheesy potatoes and a muffin.
And she’s a good friend and she apologized for not having diet coke. The cheesy potatoes made up for it.
My friend (who mere months ago I would have referred to as a Kindermusik mom or a piano mom) is now my friend. And she is in my life because God placed her there. And He placed me. He chose us. As friends. For this time.
She is broken. We are broken.
She is scared. We are scared.
She is waiting. We are waiting.
She cries out to Jesus and she wonders if He hears; wonders if He cares; wonders if this is the burden that is too much to bare?
Do you really have a plan, Lord? Cause some days it would appear that maybe you forgot, you know, about us.
Why me, why more; why the wait and why the hate and is it You or is it fate?
I have friends, old and new, and family close and family true and they have walked this journey beside me and in front of me and occasionally falling behind to catch me. And I know, humbly, humbly, humbly know that now it’s my turn; that now I walk beside and bare burdens and wipe tears, and I want to help and I want to heal and I want her to know that yes there is the wait and no, God leaves nothing to fate but my words get tangled and I say too much, too fast and too, too, too. The words come crashing in and I remember, but only part and I mess it and I muss it and the voice in my head cries, STOP TALKING!
And so I do. Or at least I try.
But then I remember. I remember a word that was given to me early on and I say the words. “We are all broken.”
You are broken. I am broken. We are all broken.
This word was hard for me at first because I was able to admit being broken, so long as I could hold on to the idea that I was “less” broken than the others who were obviously so.much.more.broken. than me.
But I gave it up. And in that giving, there is freedom.
Freedom to give up the idea that somehow I am better and so therefore you should be better and no-one is really better.
We are all broken.
In some way.
So I think about my friend James. My friend James who at times in his life has looked like the uni-bomber. My friend James, who long-bearded and covered from head to toe sat with his family in an airport reading the Koran just weeks after 9-11. My friend James who is the most literal and hysterical person I know and he freaks out anytime you say, “That is unbelievable!”
He will say. “Really? I mean there’s no part of you that can believe that? Really? Are you sure? Seriously, it’s completely just UN-believable?” And he’s infuriating but he’s right.
It’s believable. I can believe that you are cheating on your wife and I can believe that you are lying to your boss and I can believe that you yell at your children and your teenage daughter is pregnant and I can believe that you are addicted to drugs and I can believe that you, the cute little couple with the beautiful children and the perfect life, yes you are getting divorced and yes.
We are all broken.
So today when we hear the news shocking and appalling and surprising and falling and when we go to say, when we go to gossip, “Oh my gosh! Can you believe that!”
Let’s stop. And breathe.
And remember. We are all broken.
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