Wet tendrils of hair stuck to my neck and face, I stood in the shower and let the hot water soak my skin. My heart sighed with heaviness and I breathed deeply. “Jesus, wash away the dirt on my heart.”
The desperate cry for redemption on a silent wintry night. The world lying quietly blanketed in powdery white snow, the stars shining bright, and me feeling frantic for redemption.
When we stood at the altar those years ago and I said “I do” to for better or worse, yelling at him because he broke my pottery picture frame was unimaginable.
It had been my idea, to hang up a new collage frame of family pictures, and these…my faith, hope, and love wall hooks, gifted in generous love by a friend. We were deciding then, just before the broken pieces, where to position the 1 Corinthian 13 tokens on the bathroom walls.
I had moved the pottery frame from its original place and was suggesting we hang it over there, in the corner by the wooden towel ladder.
“You have to hold it like this or you’ll drop it.” I had said that, and then.
The frame fell.
And me shouting.
“Are you serious? RYAN! I told you to hold it like this or you’ll drop it.”
“I am so frustrated,” He said and I knew how sorry he felt as I knelt to examine the frame. “I’m sorry.”
And me? All I could say was “For crying out loud.” Three times like the apostle Peter rejected Jesus, I said this, and I rejected the genuine apology of my husband, revealing the darkness of my own heart attached more to pottery picture frames than to him.
Standing to my feet I walked enraged to the kitchen. The large pieces landed forcefully into the trashcan and I felt it, this utter frustration freeze me.
He was kneeling quietly on the floor, sweeping up the broken shards of glass, and I had shouted at him and scolded him like a child… over a stupid pottery picture frame?
What is this broken ugliness of my own heart?
We silently decided where to hang the 1 Corinthians 13 hooks and as I looked at the words inscribed on the colored tin, I breathed the hypocrisy of it all, and felt a kindred connection to the dustpan of broken shards.
We’re a lot alike – the shattered dustpan contents and I.
He went to play his guitar and masterfully strummed while I cried out to God in the shower, begging forgiveness, seeking redemption, reaching for wholeness to cut through the jagged cracks in my heart.
I feel like such a child asking His forgiveness. And then his. My response had been so babyishly near-sighted. Am I still so far from the eternal perspective?
The open arms of healing grace receive me and broken shards meet once again with grace, swallowed up in the humility of redemption.