Tears like swimmers threaten to dive off a cliff and splatter my laptop. Any second, they’ll free fall and I won’t be able to stop them. I whisper, “don’t” as my hands tremble to reveal the secret I’ve been hiding for months. Like a scarlet letter—this one single moment became sewn into the fabric of my identity. The fear of someone learning the truth kept the secret burning in my chest and I wanted so badly to not carry the shame anymore.
I try not to dwell on the past as with all of us, because there are hurts like this moment that aren’t completely healed.
As I stared at the typed words, my thoughts drifted back to that awful day—the day my world fell to pieces. My life was shattered by one pivotal moment after another spread over six months. I wondered if my fragmented life would ever be made whole. Like a mended piece of pottery or stained glass window.
It reminded me of the times my grandmother would take to me to church. The windows on each side of the sanctuary were filled with different moments of Jesus and his time here on earth. The church would fill to the brim and I would sit next to my grandma as she raised her hands high while I studied each shade and hue. All the different pieces and colors held together by seams of soldered lead. I always thought the picture would be much prettier if it was one solid piece without all the lines.
If I only looked at one piece, it was just that—a piece. A shape of blue or a square of yellow but when I focused on the whole picture, I saw a masterpiece. I’m reminded of how my life is like that window.
But someone tossed a bolder at it, shattering it to pieces, ruining treasures like trust, kindness, respect and community. I’ve been a part of the process trying to recover all that was broken. Picking up the fragments is a painful process as jagged pieces slice flesh and prick fingers.
I snap back to the present and debate on deleting my email because it’s easier to not get entangled in this life. It’s easier to let the enemy who threw the rock to get away with it rather than fight.
But then I think we as women all have moments when life has shattered and the idea of mending scares us. We’re afraid of the bruised knees, ripped jeans and scars. But those scars are proof of victory moments.
These scars belong to the woman who lost her career.
To the mama who’s standing up for her child who’s being bullied.
To the woman who’s fighting for her marriage on her knees.
To the teen girl who’s walked away from the pressure to give in.
And even then when we feel all is lost, I know there is someone rooting for us.
I know someone who’s battling for us, someone who’s helping to pick up the pieces and he tells me,
“I’m putting you back together again.”
And then I see the whole picture.
Daughter, this is part of the masterpiece. You aren’t broken, if it wasn’t for the seams, how could the world see me?
I take a deep breath and tap send. The message shoots into cyberspace–all the dirty and the ugly and the truth revealed. And then I let the cliff divers run down my face. They splatter the keyboard and I then I realize something about the salty stream, these tears aren’t a sign of weakness, but a reflection that I’m alive and proof there’s still a fierceness in my heart. It’s another piece mended.