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Broken Things

Do you know how hard it can be to live the life my late husband and I cultivated specifically for a future together?

All the plans, all the dreams, and all the hopes...

He left me behind with all these broken things that he was fully capable of fixing…things I have no idea what to do with.

The old water pump he planned on replacing.  

The Land Rover he laughed about even as it broke every month and he spent far more hours than he planned tuning it up.  

The broken doorknobs that keep adding up. 

The ridiculous internet that has only gotten worse the more we try to fix it  

The dishwasher that decided to start dying this weekend  

…me.

I had to figure out how to survive without him. How to fix or replace all the broken things he enjoyed so much.

He loved things because they were broken. He loved that they had a history…a story. He wanted to be a part of that legacy. To give something a new life, a new hope. 

And then he died…leaving me with all the broken things he hadn’t fixed yet.

I spent years learning to love what he loved because I loved him. I instinctually dislike fixing things...its never been something that I find fulfilling. Nor am I particularly skilled at it. And now I'm surrounded with things that need fixing and I am not even sure I want to keep some of them.

I constantly have to decide if I like the things in my house because I actually like them or because they once made him happy. Because he was so much a part of me for so very long…for a while I didn’t even know who I was without him, what I even liked just for myself.

It still feels incredibly selfish to do things just because I like them. And don’t even get me started on doing things that I know he never would have done or never wanted me to do. 

I feel like a big jerk. Being someone new…without him. Sometimes I feel like I’m betraying him, betraying my family. But I couldn’t handle being the same me every day after he died. Parts of that person died when he died…and I had to discover who I am now. And I hate it. I really do. 

I hate that he made me feel loved and beautiful. I hate that his touch brought me comfort. I hate that he made me feel safe. I hate that I trusted him with every part of heart.

Because he died…and so did those parts of me. 

I hate that I’m lonely. I hate that the lack of physical comfort makes me ache some days. I hate that I don’t feel safe anymore  I hate that I’m not loved and that the men who call me beautiful just want my body and not my heart. I hate that I don’t trust anyone anymore.  

I hate that I long for another partner. Not to be him, or fill some empty part of me. I long for another partner because I believe in a life of love and partnership. Because I had it once, I know it exists...and what we are all capable of. 

I hate that I don’t actually hate what he did to me…

I hate that I don't hate the broken parts of me he left behind…the things only he fixed…

I wouldn’t trade them for anything. They’re the scars that our life together left on me. Because it was so worth remembering…so worth experiencing. 

I’m still a broken thing…hoping that someone who sees beauty and worth in broken things sees me…really sees me...and wants to be a part of the tragically beautiful legacy I carry with me...for always.

Until then, even if it's never "then", I will sit in my broken house surrounded by my broken things trying to patch up everything the very best I can...while letting go of the things that truly don't matter anymore.

In this wonderful patchwork life that I’m determined to love. 

If you're wondering how Jesus fits into this scenario, just remember he was the was the one who truly taught us what it meant to love the broken things. What it meant to create a legacy from the ashes. What it could be like to be truly redeemed from all the brokenness. 

My broken home, filled with my broken dreams, holding my broken daughter, and my broken heart...are all laid down at the foot of the very cross that first declared that there nothing was too broken that the almighty God couldn't call it out of the ashes into the marvelous light. 

There is hope in this patchwork life...maybe not in the fixing of things here on earth...but in the knowledge that this was never meant to be our home...and these patches are only temporary. 

Until then maybe I'll do silly things like get a fourth dog, or a new piercing, or shave the side of my head because John wouldn't have liked it...but I do. And I think I'm ok with that...because I like me.




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