Sharing Brokenness
by Amanda Knihal

As a young girl, I had a little ceramic bank shaped like a roller skate. It sat upon my shelf, full of coins that probably amounted to less than two dollars. A few times a week, I would take it down and pull out the stopper to count my riches. One day as I clumsily tried to shove the stopper back in, I pushed too hard and shattered one of the wheels.

I felt devastated. My faithful mother took out her hot glue gun and got to work. I watched as she carefully glued each piece back together. I remember how relieved I felt when she had fixed it. Yet, at the same time, I felt frustrated that when she was all done it still looked like a broken bank.

A few years later, in the first grade, I remember dressing up as one of my favorite storybook characters from Little House on the Prairie. When I got to school, I realized that the button that had been keeping my pioneer dress fastened had popped off somewhere, causing my dress to hang wide open in the back. I quickly “fixed” it with a piece of Scotch tape.

Over the years, I have encountered different depths of brokenness – he brokenness that comes from the loss of one you love, the brokenness that civil war left behind in Sierra Leone, the brokenness left by generations of segregation and oppression here in Omaha. I have also encountered more inward forms of brokenness that come from my own selfishness, jealousy and greed. I don’t have to look very far before I find someone or something that has been broken.

Just as when I was a little girl, when I find that I am broken, I rush to find the quickest fix. Full of pride, I hope that no one will notice my cracks, my tears and my wounds. When people around me are broken, I often find myself wanting to heroically help fix them as well.

I have found that God has a different response. Usually, He doesn’t hand over the Scotch tape or run for the glue to piece us back together. Instead, I find Him gathering up the pieces with me and quietly offering to take them, to trade in my brokenness for His wholeness, to trade my mourning for joy, my heavy burdens for His light yoke.

In Revelation 21, John has a vision that tells of God’s beautiful plan of restoration:

I heard a voice thunder from the Throne: "Look! Look! God has moved into the neighborhood, making His home with men and women! They're His people, He's their God. He'll wipe every tear from their eyes. Death is gone for good – tears gone, crying gone, pain gone – all the first order of things gone." The Enthroned continued, "Look! I'm making everything new. Write it all down – each word dependable and accurate." (vv. 3-5, The Message Bible)

When we encounter the brokenness left by poverty, I sometimes feel as if we come armed with Band-Aids that will not come close to covering the gaping wounds of the world.

In the slums of Kroo Bay in Freetown, Sierra Leone, Word Made Flesh staff go weekly to a small chapel where nearly 300 children come every week for a Bible lesson, an egg and basic first aid. Last summer, when I witnessed this event called the Good News Club, another visiting staff member sincerely asked what good news we had to offer the children growing up in this slum.

I have wrestled with this question for over a year now, and I am still not sure how to give an honest response. In the midst of so much brokenness, I had no fix. Compared to their incomes, I live like a millionaire. These children stood there before me in torn clothing with their toys made from sticks. I met children who did not have enough to eat and had no safe place to play. To be honest, at first look, I didn’t think I would find God there.

The physical brokenness in their lives offers a reflection of the intangible brokenness that exists in mine. It reminds me of my sin and all of the ways that I try to fix myself and my world without any trust that Jesus can heal me.

At the Good News Club, the children spend the first minutes joyfully singing praise. Their worship leaders are former child soldiers whose scars are reminders of their not so distant past. As I stood along the wall taking it in, I felt the sweet presence of Jesus resting among us. He was there in the wreckage of the slum, loving, holding and resting among His children.

In that moment I witnessed the truth of Isaiah 61:3. He had bestowed on them a “crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”

These verses and some words of wisdom from my older sister, Gretchen Cox, have gently reminded me that the story does not end with our scars. My scars, when I find the courage to let them show, are a testament to the healing touch of the Father. They are a reminder of God’s grace and mercy. With this bittersweet truth, I find myself ever thankful for the scars. I find that showing my scars in a place like Kroo Bay may be the best gift that I can offer. They allow me to tell of the healer who longs to tend to their wounds as well.

God has a plan. The tears, the crying and the pain will be gone completely. God will make all things new. He promised. For now, we find bits and pieces of His healing in this world. As John prophesied, soon we will see the full realization of God’s plan. Until then, I pray for the grace and humility to live as one who has cracks and is broken, fully dependent upon the healing that Jesus offers.