Beauty in the Broken

I've just been doing some work this evening. When I work I listen to music. And I lose track of the words, or sometimes they all run together--the ideas, the words, the thoughts and sounds. Right now I have a good mix of Andrew Osenga and Jeremy Casella going. They each have ways of looking at the ugliness of life and finding some sort of beauty, some sort of hope for redemption. As I listen to the music, I keep remembering that Bible verse that says something about "My ways are not your ways." I usually think about that verse in conjunction with the verse that come next, that verse that explains that God's ways are higher than our ways.

I'm not sure I've ever read that correctly. And, I'm not sure that tonight I've stumbled upon the correct way of reading it, perhaps just a way I've never thought of before. But, as I was working and listening to these songs which speak so clearly of brokenness, I kept going back to the idea that His ways are not our ways. Or, at least they're not my ways. I'd hate to pass judgement on anyone else. I can only speak for myself, and this self is definitely lacking.

A few years ago, I went to the Chelsea Flower Show. At the show, they have all these demonstration gardens. Landscapers and gardeners have these elaborate presentations to show what they can do. It's amazing. My favorite garden was one that took bits of trash and worked them into the landscape design. Little candy wrappers made their way into benches or edging. I know it sounds strange, but it just worked.

You see, that's what I want to see. I want to see how those little bits of trash are worked into something beautiful. I want to see the finished product, to know that somehow all the little bits ugliness--the pain, the frustration, the hurt, the sadness--can be made into something beautiful. I want it for myself, but I also want it for the people I love. I want to see how the pains in their lives can become something that could give them comfort or how the sad experiences can be used to help someone else. I mean, how often do we see someone struggling under the weight of personal demons and have a feeling that that person may not make it? Don't we all kind of want to skip to the end of the story and see that everything turns out okay in the end? Don't we want to skip through the sad chapters, the hard chapters? Or do we just assume the worst, assume that there is no redemption, no recovery?

Sometimes I find it hard to find the beauty in the broken, the beauty in what seems so ugly and unfixable. His ways are not my ways. He sees to the end of the story, for better or worse. And, for better or worse, there is always love. He always loves.

And perhaps that love is where we can find some hope, some promise of redemption. Tomorrow I leave for El Salvador. I love being there. I love seeing my kids at the orphanage. But, in many ways, El Salvador is a place where the pains of life are evident right at the surface, not hidden away like we so often do here in a country where we can afford to hide our pain--put it in a big house, medicate it, put some nice shoes on it and act like everything is okay. But, in San Salvador, those pains are right there walking down the street, begging for change, hoping to find a place to sleep for the night.

But, it is also in San Salvador that I have seen to greatest hope. It is there that I know children--most of them abandoned, neglected, having suffered abuse and molestation--who possess such a deep faith. They have faith in God, and, somehow, they even have faith in other people. And maybe it's their faith in God that allows them to trust that people, deep down, really have some good in them. Or perhaps the children just know that the good they see in people comes from God.

Or, perhaps I'm getting a little tired by now and just need to go to bed. Because tomorrow I must pack. And tomorrow I get to see these children who give me so much hope, so much reason to believe that there can be beauty even in the ugliest pains of life.

I love you all,

Sara