Broken Things

Some people throw out broken things.  Maybe most people do.  I do, these days . . . I don't quite have the space here I used to.  But I hate to do it, because my instinct is always to mend things, to get them working again, to make them useful again.  Well, at least I can recycle, rather than just dump - and of course I do do that, whenever I can.

And I do have to be careful, given a troublesome tendency to anthropomorphise all kinds of things, not to let myself get silly and sentimental.  This broken thing (whatever it may be) may have been mine for years, may have been very useful once upon a time, may have travelled through some tough times with me - but it is just a thing; and if it doesn't work it is no longer of value.

Of course, sometimes the broken thing may have been given you by someone special, or may have been the prized possession of someone special:  my grandfather's old watch, for example (not that I actually have this, but I can imagine).  It may be old, it may be beyond repair, but it would be tremendously difficult to throw away.  I can well understand someone keeping that sort of thing;  after all, it isn't only the thing it is but more - it contains and conveys something of the person remembered and the times shared.  So I probably couldn't throw out something like that.  In my crowded home, I'd still find a place for it somewhere.

Some people throw out broken people.  I can understand how that happens.  A mistake is made, a hurt is caused, a project fails, a sin is committed . . . and a label is fixed that says "failure" or "sinner" or "not to be trusted".  Sometimes there is a call for revenge, other times just a wall of silence, and deliberate exclusion from the circles and places (maybe even the family) where once one was able to feel secure and accepted.

As I say, I can understand how that happens.  Hurts once caused are not easily soothed or removed.  It may not be possible to revive or restart a project that has failed through someone's willfulness or neglect.  It may be hard to imagine that a leopard might one day lose his spots.  It can be especially difficult to feel positive about a person you used to respect, rely on, perhaps place on a pedestal, and who has let you down, or played you false.

All I want to say here, to myself and to broken people everywhere, is that God does not throw out broken people.  Or anyway, I do not believe he does.  I believe that the instinct to mend, to get things working again, to put things right, is something entirely in tune with his will. He goes on loving what he has made.  How can I bear witness to that love?  Here, for me, is the beginning of ministry.