October 18, 2010
Wisdom in the weary things
I have no advice to give anyone. My sister-in-law is having twins this winter, and little by little I pack Evan’s old things (that would suit little girls) into a cardboard box with Post-It notes attached describing how to use an item or telling them it’s okay to dress their daughters in blue pajamas because they’ll grow out of them so fast it’ll hardly matter. There is a note in there telling my brother he’ll make a wonderful father. One telling them not to worry about cleaning the house – just sleep when they can.
Advice I was given.
It’s all good advice, but I cannot claim any original thoughts. I have no pearls of wisdom that I can capture on a small square sticky note, no helpful hints I can whisper like secrets across the many miles between my Little Mister and his aunt and uncle and soon-to-be cousins. The only way I can show them how to live is to fling my arms open wide and expose the rivulets of blood still drying on my chest.
The wounds I’ve encountered. The lashings I’ve taken. The times I’ve tripped and fallen and gotten up bruised, shaken to my core and weary with the effort of rising. That is the only way I know of to give any advice: to uncover the battle scars and say, “See what God has made of me? I am alive and well, His Spirit has made me whole.” I am not crafted from anything other than my own mistakes and delusions, my own folly, my self-ness. Yet the Potter has taken such raw and useless materials and has stained the glass so that others can see what bold colors come of brittle things. What beauty comes from the misshapen: the broken, set, and rebroken-to-heal life.
I have no advice to give my brother and his family. They will simply have to look at me to see that all is never, never lost.
