Broken Girl

My girl, she was quiet on the drive home. I had seen it; the way that girl crossed her arms over her middle, as superior. I had heard what she said and how she said it. “When do you get your braces off? And why do you have glasses? I think you look way better without glasses.” Pieces of me shattered as I sat, pretending to be unaware of what was playing out right next to me. I fought the urge to give this girl a speech, gather my cub up fierce, and hide her away in a place only we knew, where I could preach that she was beautiful. My heart faltered as I heard her stumble, speech jarring. “Ummmm, I’m not sure. I’m not sure when I get my braces off.” I had been proud of how she had handled it so maturely. Yet, here now, as we drove, she seemed far off. How to span this distance. I waited. “How’d tonight go? Did you guys have fun?” A chorus of “yes’s” rang forth from behind me. Still nothing. “Hey Kennedy, was that girl that you met nice?” “Yep. She was super nice. She’s only a year older than me.” Maybe I had overheard that conversation completely wrong. “Did she mention anything about your glasses?” Silence. And then, “Ya… she said she thought I looked prettier without them.” “You know that’s not true, right? That with, or without glasses, God cares about your heart?” Walls came crumbling down. I tell her it’s going to be okay; that it's okay not to feel okay. I tell myself it’s going to be okay. How do you look an 8-year-old who is so much the spitting image of you, in the eyes and explain that girls can be downright mean, women can talk behind one another’s backs, and Christians can slay one another asunder with their actions? We are a judgmental herd, always looking to be first. I know what it is to slay, and I know what it is to be slain. I have wounded bleating sheep beside me, and I have spent much of my life wounded. Both bear their effects. I have been shattered on the inside, in my deepest, unknown places. I’ve spent days remembering, trying to get back, take back, what can no longer be. And sometimes the greatest suffering comes from the voices in my head telling me I’ll never measure up. I’m drawn back to her as she tells me that it hurts, even though it’s not true. Words-they still hurt. I remind her then, I remind myself then, that people will always have opinions about you, but God is the only One who has intimate knowledge of you. Your identity isn’t in what others think, or how you feel. Your identity is in how God feels about you. We cry some more.

Then we recall that time not too long ago. That time we talked long into the night about how kids can be so mean to those they see as different. How it’s hard to stand up for those who are being left out, but that’s what’s important. Because God-He always goes out of His way for the straggling sheep. I asked her then, “What makes that girl any different than you?” She paused, thinking hard and long. “Her hair, I guess. It’s just curly and mine is straight.” They are just wee ones, and the hair, they already notice the hair. We talked about pride, how we tend to tear each other down in an effort to make ourselves feel big. “Mom, how do you stop that? How do you make all that pride go away?” “You can pray for it. Simple as that. God will hear your prayers. He will help you through the struggle.” She smiled a sigh of relief, asking if we could pray. “You’re a good girl, you know that? Momma loves you.” She smiled happy, “That makes me kinda happy and sorta sad all at once…do you ever have that Mom?” Right now, baby girl, I have that right now, sitting here with you. “It also makes me feel proud again that you love me so much. I think I need to pray.” Emotions…oh how they move us to God.

We pondered on our drive home. How God used the experience of being hurt, to see the hurt. How perhaps next time, standing up for the forgotten will hopefully seem more supreme. And how it’s difficult to do the right thing, when it goes against the “norm.” I recalled those conversations I had with my daughter a while ago, this past week, as I worked through my own struggles and thoughts on compassion. Compassion. It literally means, “to suffer together.” Yes, we weep with those who weep. Yet compassion isn’t always as easy as it seems. Rather, it’s a veering from your own run, to walk beside another. It’s tedious, tending to crack pieces of you from within as you learn to listen, even when you don’t completely comprehend. It’s being slow to speak your own opinions, which you see so clearly as facts. It’s attempting to crawl into the skin of another human being and connect with their heart until it becomes the beating of your own. Sometimes the most painful thing to do is turn your face towards the downcast, different spirit of another and wait patiently for their eyes to meet yours. It’s a willingness to hear the pain, concerns, and heartache of another soul and take it as your own. To stay at arm’s length and say, “They seem different,” is easy. To tilt the face of a unique brother or sister in Christ up and say, “I don’t understand, but I want to. I want to hear you because I want to know you,” takes work. It takes love. The self-sacrificial kind. The dying kind. Where I have struggled lately in feeling there could be a lack of compassion for the vulnerable, I was also struck with a question- What is more difficult? Holding the splintering pieces of a bleeding heart, or waiting for others to see the black and blue along with me? I often find myself lacking in patience as I wait for others to see the burning houses of people’s hearts all around. Yet, the soul-binding love that attaches me to another wounded heart must also be the kind of love that is characterized by patience and understanding for others. And where am I failing to see the hearts all aflame around me?

I wrote the following as I have reflected. Because that is what I do. I spew, I sputter, and I don’t always make complete sense. I write and re-write. And I don’t always think my thoughts straight through. But then I write, and it always brings me back to You.

Broken Girl-

Hey broken girl, I spot you sitting there. You cower in the corner, always chosen last. I see you broken girl; you have metal on your teeth. You hide that smile beneath your lips for fear of how they’ll point. And you, broken girl, I hear her call your name. She tells you you’d look prettier without the glasses that you wear. I see you get all stuttery as you slip them from your face. I understand you’re crying, broken girl, because they call you ugly names. Your curls make your hair different, and that is not okay. You try to wear it straighter, but still it frizzes out. They run away as you follow close behind. They giggle when you fall and tell you to get up. They laugh at your mistakes and tell you you’re all wrong.

I know you broken girl, although you’re growing up. You hear their hushed tones. They whisper right in front of you and say you’re getting fat. They wonder if you’re dieting, or if you’re okay being like that. Broken girl-you shouldn’t have screwed up. Because of you they lost the game. They could do much better if you weren’t part of the team. Hey broken girl-I see you crying all inside. He thought that you should know- so he tells you plain as day, “All the guys like you because your body’s hot.” You feel like that should help you, a compliment like that. But somehow you feel damaged and not worth a lot. Broken girl, you think your time won’t come. You seek one day to marry, but no one looks at you.

They don’t see you broken girl, as you travel your way home. They don’t see your tender mother hold your weeping frame. The words have beat you down today, will tomorrow be the same? They don’t know the familiar pillow that meets your tear-stained face. They don’t know you broken girl-how you keep it all inside. They don’t see your parents fighting, as they send you to your room. They don’t hear the screaming coming from the kitchen as your mother pleads and cries. They don’t see you slowly slither out your door where the one you love sits defeated in kitchen cold and bare. They don’t see the way your parents attempt to console your sobs of how the children call you fat. Broken girl, they don’t know all your fears. They don’t know how you hide from him, how you feel all used. They think that you are crazy, but you are so confused. They see a happy family, where you feel you live a lie. They don’t know it has been hard for you since you were diagnosed. Diabetes? What is that? They don’t care to know. They don’t see your pain or struggles. Do they even know your name? You are broken, girl…who is holding you?

You may be all grown woman now, yet much of you feels child. Scars from pimples line your face as you stare into the mirror. Whose reflection can that be? She looks so tall and strong. Yet, words from unkind classmates still cripple you within. You slide your glasses over as you put your contacts in. You reach for brush on counter, ready to untangle the curly mess. I see you standing near your peers as they tell you that you're thin. “What are you? A size 2? Probably a 0! I wish I lost the weight like you.” I see that man slap your husband’s back as he tells him he did fine. “A wife like that? She looks great for birthing five!” You know these words are meant to compliment, but still, they hurt a little, as you wish they’d notice more the spirit of Whose image that you bear. I see your broken body hop up on the scale. You find yourself still single, wondering if those girls were right. I see you broken girl. Yes, you have grown older, and you know there’s nothing to fear. Still, you sleep with that hall light on to provide comfort to you here. You see your husband’s godly character loving, protecting you. There are times, however, you can’t help but remember those who said he was too good for you. I see you hold your own broken girl who came crying off the bus. You hold her the way you were taught; the way your mother once held you. This mini-you shares some of your same broken, and that breaks you right in two.

I believe you broken girl. I know sometimes you think you talk in circles, that what you say just doesn’t make much sense. It’s okay broken girl, talk for as long as you please. I understand it can be confusing, and you just long to be heard. I will try to listen broken girl, until your puzzle starts to form. Some people may not understand you broken girl, but if there’s something I am learning, it’s that no two are shaped the same. So, try and be patient with them broken girl, for they have their own broken way, and don’t yet have eyes to see. Jesus’ disciples once were blind too. He told him of his death plainly, yet it took them time to see. Compassion oft comes slowly for those who have not trod the same path. It’s okay to cry sweet broken girl. To weep the sin that fragments daily between this garden and the next. Someday heavenly perfection will show us crystal clear. But for now, know that God is near. He never leaves us friendless; He always understands. In His fierce love, He sent his Son to break for you. He says ever tender, gently, “Simply lean on me broken girl, rest your weary frame. Come breathe in all I tell you right here from My Word. It’s true, and founded, always stable, a rock amidst the waves. Trust this way My broken girl. Don’t think on who you were. What has happened does not define your worth. You are My creation. Believe that when I formed you, I knew the perfect way. All these splinters and this pain, it’s drawing you to Me. Fret not on tomorrows, for grace is for the day. Don’t believe that you are broken girl-you are Whole in Me.”

Hey broken girl, our stories may be different, but you are broken, made whole...just like me.