Fixing the Broken Stuff

A couple of days ago I walked outside and took a really good look at my daughter's trampoline.  It was a gift to us from a contractor who'd found it at a house in foreclosure, abandoned and looking for a new home.  My daughter was so excited when she saw it, as were our neighbor's kids.  Now, it's a mess, the screens torn off and the poles for the screens bent, a victim of young boys who have all but destroyed it. 

Suddenly struck by the destruction, as well as the fact that my daughter is very upset that her beloved trampoline is now in a sorry state of ill, I found a little lava flow of anger welling up the other day.  How could these kids break something that didn't belong to them? Why does there seem to be no sense of respect these days for the belongings of others? For the feelings of others? Of course, these are young boys; kids who needed to be told with just a little bit more urgency that it was not acceptable to swing on the poles and bend them. These are kids filled with crazy wild, boy energy, and while I still believe that a basic sense of respect for others should prevent destruction like this from happening, I also understand that sometimes crazy wild boy energy trumps all reason.

I think that more than I'm upset with them, I'm upset with myself for not setting boundaries in our yard sooner.  Afraid to offend anyone, to upset anyone too much, I said very little while this drama was unfolding.  Now, I'm not sure that this mess can be fixed, not sure the poles can be bent back and the new net hung to keep the kids safe while they're bouncing around.  Because I said nothing, the kids might end up with no trampoline, since it's unsafe condition is now stabbing at my gut, telling me the whole contraption needs to be removed before someone gets hurt.

How often do we do this with ourselves? How often do we let ourselves become broken when the answers we need for healing are right in front of us? How many times do we refuse to listen to the cries of our souls because we fear the answers might be distasteful to our friends, to our family members? Do we turn away from (dare I write the word) grace because we're afraid of the responsibility that might accompany it? Do we shun the idea of rebirth because we're afraid of the newness it, for sure, will bring?

  When is that nagging voice within our hearts a calling that's trying to break through the spiderweb stickiness of our everyday doubts and fears, and when is it just a pipe dream?  And how do we know for sure-do we ever really know for sure?


This morning, I read a passage in a book which really moved me, and I found myself sitting alone at the kitchen table, tears streaming down my cheeks as I remembered a loss which had torn me violently away from the faith I'd had at that time, away from everything I'd believed to be true.  The bedrock of life turned to sand that day and fell away, and I'd tumbled down a hill of sorts, head over ankles, down and down, into a deep well of confusion, arms flailing in the inky night of despair.  As I was reveling in this sadness, I looked up to see that one of my daughter's chrysalids had burst open.  A small butterfly clung to the wall of the butterfly house, wings still wet from her re-birth.  In the midst of my death reflection, life was born.  I didn't see it because I was so absorbed in the sadness of that moment, but there it was:  life affirming itself.

I think that we really need to be open to the possibilities of who we can be if we become unafraid to occasionally re-birth ourselves.

  It's not about waiting or worrying about a doom day, but instead focusing on a bloom day.  We can take the negative and look for the changes we're supposed to make, listen for the messages within the broken things. Really grow and blossom.

Lots of things seem impossible that aren't.  And sometimes our faith is hiding in those dark corners of the room, waiting for us to throw open the blinds.