Last week was incredibly loud. Even in the quiet moments it felt like my heart and soul were screaming. Crying, yelling, anything to really get someones attention that something was off. I kept thinking to myself something is broken and no matter how hard I try to fix it, it ends up getting more broke.
Broken in the way that my two year old just stole a bag of cookies from his dad to make sure he was selfishly entitled to however many cookies were left. Broken in that I refuse to do more laundry right now, all the while knowing I have worn the same shirt the last three days…don’t judge.
These things, although cliche, point to broken. But then there were other things. Heavier things that seemed to be overwhelmingly clear of the messed up world we live in. A little girl fighting for her life in a third world country because of heart issues. Boys being abused and neglected by their own mother. Death (thats all I have to say about that)
For whatever reason these are the things that landed in my week last week and as I sat in church trying to prepare my mind and my heart for ‘holy’ week, I began to feel this heavy brokenness come to a head. A song was sung and images of Jesus flashed on the screen just like a movie. My stomach turned as if it was the first time to see such images, to see the story played out that is written on my Bible’s pages. But it wasn’t the first time. I’ve seen the images over and over again in my decades of church attendance, sometimes not even taking a second look and just taking it as ‘normal.’
But is it normal? Is there anything normal about a perfect God choosing to step into a broken world and be broken for dirty prideful people that continually shake their fist in His face?
I’m a weepy mess this week. Feeling like I am walking around with a permanent ‘about to cry’ lump in my throat.
There is guilt. And then praise. Unworthiness and absolute adoration. Pain and Comfort. Brokenness and Redemption.
Its a different kind of holy week for me. I’m not even fighting the ‘what am I going to wear’ fight this year. Forget the coordinating colors and picture ops after church. I will be good to get through it with my waterproof mascara smeared all over my face and the ugly cry being heard by my fellow pew people.
Everything is not ok here. But as I wrestle and fight and don’t feel ok, I think of the entire message of the empty tomb. It doesn’t leave us defeated or broken, but instead brings us….drives us….makes us alive. He brings our hearts to life and over and over again in the midst of the broken He brings us to life.
I can look back over my life and see how He has worked and moved and pushed for His life in my life. For a continual beacon to die to myself and my desire so that He can live within me. In my brokenness He defeats my sin and brings to life freedom. He breaks the shackles. He picks me up when I think I can’t get up. He lifts my head when its lowered in shame. He takes my tears and gives them purpose. He comforts when I cling to control.
He alone brings these little resurrections each and every day as I walk with Him. The tomb was empty 2K plus years ago, but the evidence of that same power and love is evidenced in this broken weepy mess of a girl.
Im so very thankful for the little resurrections in my life that he graciously fights for. That His power is seen through small glimpses of my tears, and His pursuit is constant so that next Easter, in a different stores that mark next years brokenness I will be able to look back and see that He indeed is alive.
He’s alive in me.