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Broken Bits and Sutured Bits — Petite Boheme

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WrenchedBits and Sutured Bits — Petite Boheme Home Blog EntriesWell-nighSubscribe HomeBlog EntriesAboutSubscribe Musings of a Wanderer, Sojourning Towards True HomeWrenchedBits and Sutured Bits I have been undeniably enlightened of my brokenness for as long as I can remember. An unwanted daughter in a fractured family-- I unchangingly sensed a difference between me and everyone virtually me. I have despised this well-nigh myself since youth, seen myself as weak and plane pitiful at times. But I hadn't seen it for what it really was, the magnanimous purpose it has all served. I moreover hadn't realized, in regards to brokenness, I was no increasingly or less wrenched than everyone else walking through this life, all dealt a variegated hand, in a variegated way and at variegated times. I hadn't realized.   As a damaged young girl (even as a new wife if I'm stuff honest) I had a propensity to push yonder with hideous words the ones I feared most would sooner leave me-- push them yonder surpassing they had the endangerment to see me for what I was and leave of their own accord. A lunge for tenancy in what I thought was the inevitable. Really all it overly made me finger was wildly spun out of tenancy and defective. It moreover landed me in a habit of scraping a safety pin or small shard of a wrenched picture frame wideness my forearm, just to quiet all the hurt inside. When the red seeped up, my mind went silent and an artificial, fleeting wifely settled over me. Then I tucked my pin and glass when under the small corner of carpet I hid them beneath, my arm raw and my mind blank. The intention was never to severely wound or scar, only to finger unbearable physical pain to still the mental and emotional for a bit.   By God's grace those moments have wilt less and less through the refining fires of loss, the life-giving practice of gratitude and wrestling with God to find a sustaining faith. But this week I then found myself wild and spinning out of control, slinging words like a madwoman. Though it's been several years since I've dragged pin or glass through my skin, the rabid desire to wound creeps up unexpectedly at times. I no longer requite myself the option to quiet it with wearing but the turbulent wrongness and lunge for tenancy rear their throne in my words still. I'm red-faced to say I've lived Romans 3 increasingly often than I superintendency to admit. I've prayed eloquent Pharisee prayers out of one side of my mouth, and spoken words that could cut straight through a soul out the other side. My throat has been an unshut grave, spewing waste out of the overflow of my own brokenness, often slinging ugliness on the ones I love the most.  My tongue has been the forked, venom-filled tongue of a serpent, striking and winding hurt into the minds and hearts of people I deem precious. I've left ruin in my path with words said and words withheld. I've judged harshly, I've wounded intentionally, and I've outright refused to speak life-giving words into my loved ones.  I've been the mom who chooses shrieking willpower over gentle teaching. I've been the wife who knowingly hurls dagger words, desiring to unravel and maim as I've been broken. I've been the hypocrite, unsuspicious and plane expecting grace for myself, but giving none to others. I've held grudges, demanded payment, retaliated, and reveled in hurt.  There is so much darkness still in this heart of mine that somehow moreover houses Love and Light Himself. I don't understand why God still contends with me, short of the thoroughbred that covers me. Where would I be if not for the cross? If not for the daily-- no, minute by minute-- cleansing that is the thoroughbred and water flowing from His side, rushing over me and permeating my sin-darkened heart.   It isn't lost on me-- the trappy irony of my brokenness stuff healed through the One who willingly tapped himself over a Roman cross. The witlessness of piercing my skin in a frenzied struggle to transude out the shame and guilt. When all withal it's only served to yank me nearer to the One whose pierced side bled out perfect recantation for my failures and flaws, my sins sweaty in His rouge grace long surpassing I plane single-minded them.  Jesus, alimony me tropical to your cross, whatever that ways for my comfort. Ask of me whatever is required to alimony me seeking without the inflowing of Your blood-streaked grace, plane if that ways exposing my frailty and my failures. I pray that my words, what I've used to both hibernate overdue and to inflict pain, would now only serve to expose, in humility, my weaknesses-- my failures, the thorns in my mankind (there are many) and to reveal The One who has unchangingly been working it ALL together for good. Especially the things that haven't felt good at all.  I hadn't realized it was all kindness. It was all for good considering of His kindness. A refusal to leave me in my mess. Upheaval so He could resettle. Brokenness so He could repair. Every tear, every struggle, every heartache, every mistake. Every one-liner in what I once saw as shattered, has all been purposed to heal into something beautiful, something stronger, something tender and compassionate. Something that looks increasingly like Him and less like me.    Kathryn CurryFebruary 28, 20172 Comments Facebook0 Twitter Pinterest0 0 Likes Next First Words, Final Words and the Insignificant Between Kathryn CurryJanuary 15, 2017   Powered by Squarespace