Shattered

Can I tell you a secret? I have a dream. It has been in me for a long time, but I don't speak of it much. Maybe because it seems like more of a fantasy than a dream. But in it I am the host of a gathering of people young and old...not a church like we think of church today, (where everyone comes together and puts on a happy face, sings songs and listens to a teacher tell them what he believes the Bible means, and they accept his interpretation as unerring truth, and they go on their merry way until the next Sunday)...no, not a church like that. In my dream I invite people together to explore. To let down our guards and get to the real stuff. To ask questions and admit we don't really know everything, and to seek together the One who does have the answers. In my dream it is a safe place. It is a place where instead of trying to ignore our wounds, we tend to them with love. That is my dream.

This "gathering" would be called "Shattered" because in my dream I saw a sign hanging outside with that word on it...which might seem like a strange name for any kind of gathering of seekers of God and followers of the Way...but I have found out another secret. The people I know who are the most broken, those who have lived through the most pain and suffering...they are the people who bring the most comfort to me in the midst of my pain, my suffering, my brokenness.

I had a dream...the kind that we have while sleeping, not imagining. In it I knew my son was dead...but I don't remember feeling any grief. I just remember sitting with a group of people...and they were all talking and laughing...and I remember sitting there thinking "This is absurd! They are talking like nothing happened, and my son is dead!"
Finally I spoke up and said something like "Could we just take a minute and acknowledge that my son is dead? Do you even care that my son is dead? I haven't planned his funeral yet, and you all are talking like nothing happened!" (awkward!)
And then I think I remembered that I hadn't had a service for him yet, and I needed to plan one, and what kind of mother am I that I hadn't done that, and I felt overwhelmed. And that is all I remember.
Strange how often I feel exactly this way. I feel like we are so broken, each of us is so full of pain that people avoid us or ignore us because they don't know what to say if they did acknowledge us. Or they are afraid to pray for us because what if it doesn't work? Better to just ignore it and go on.

"But he's a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He is not to be allowed to fall into his grave like an old dog. Attention must be finally paid to such a person." (From Death of a Salesman, by Arthur Miller)

There are some who do acknowledge me. There are some whom God has placed around me, to walk with me, to pray for me and with me...there are some who "see". Do you know who they are? Do you know who the ones are who choose to look at us? They are all broken ones. They are people who have not lived a perfect life, who do not have perfect families, and who have plenty of questions and not so many answers.

A few years ago, I began to pray for eyes to "see". When praying that way, at the time, I remember I was thinking that God would open my eyes to the Supernatural. I wanted to see angels and glorious things so that I could be closer to Him. I wanted to have my eyes opened to see what He sees. And do you know what? I realize now that what God sees, that what He has opened my eyes to see, is the suffering and brokenness all around me...not just on the street corner or in the hospital or rehab facility, but even on the seat next to me at church. Maybe we spend too much time gazing at angels and not enough time looking...at the pain...all around us.

I have a sense that there are so many broken people...(aren't most of us broken in some way or other?)...who don't feel seen. People who are afraid to be transparent and show their brokenness because those around them present perfection and to do so would only bring shame. I have a sense that there are people who instead of having a verse quoted to them, need to have a living, breathing Jesus reach out to them and walk with them, weep with them, and even sit with them in their pain until they are strong enough to stand up...someone who will not deny their pain, or treat them as if they have somehow failed in this Christian experiment...someone who will stop and look and truly see.

In my dream, I am that someone. Whether that dream ever comes to pass, I hope carrying it within me will somehow keep my eyes open and my senses alert to the shattered, of whom I am one.