I just finished my Five minute Friday post on the word prompt “broken”. I published it, linked it up, and read a few other posts. But my post was inadequate. Way too inadequate.
Aside from the obvious reason that it’s probably not even 50 words in there, the writing didn’t do justice to this ugly word called “broken”.
Because, you see, I had only five minutes to talk about the word. And yet, I would spend the whole night trying to describe what it means or what it is, for me at least. I could bore you to death. Really.
The reality is, I feel broken. I am broken.
From the time I wake up to the time I sleep, I have bright neon signs around me, telling me how broken I am. How inadequate. How pathetic.
Strangers, acquaintances, friends and family, everyone has their opinion. Some may hide behind a fake smile or a kind word, but they all know the same thing: this one’s a broken vessel.
Sometimes I feel like having this big “L” on my forehead. Like a scarlet letter, I must have this vibe that lets people know that I’m vulnerable, gullible, crazy enough to be fooled. Oh no, they don’t take advantage, deliberately. But somehow they know that I can get sucked in into the guilt trip game.
That’s how broken I am.
I feel tired, worn out, at the end of my rope. My vision is bleak. I look around me and I see people who’s smarter, faster, richer, cooler, prettier than me. And I feel the brokenness, the inadequacies, all the more.
Critiqued, criticized, belittled. Passed over, excluded, forgotten. People I don’t know have done it. People I do know (or thought I knew) have. With every little nudge, every remark, every subtle hint, it shouts louder than a church bell tolls: I am unmade.
This is not a pity party. This is just reality hitting head on.
Impatient, unkind, bitter, unforgiving. This is not something I’m proud of.
In every corner, there awaits an opportunity either to fall flat on the face or to rise above it. Guess which one I always end up doing. Who would want to trip and fall? And yet, again and again, I do it. Every single time. Every single day.
When the alarm goes off, I’m anxious to perform well and good. At the end of the day, I feel beaten and pounded. Ground into dust.
Is that the meaning of the phrase “from dust you were and to dust you will return”? Because I feel like dust being sieved through tiny holes in a mesh, squeezed until nothing is left but pulp. What good is that if the essence has run dry?
A faint light. A tiny spark. A hope so small in contrast to the vast darkness.
The brokenness is evident. But something else is more lasting and strong. I cannot fathom its depth and mystery. All I can do is hold on to it and let it pull me. To that place where I can see that brokenness is only skin deep. That I am more than these.
But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. (2 Corinthians 4:7-10 NIV)