The Broken

One year ago today, I stood smiling next to my family as my uncle snapped a photo of us, Taal Volcano quietly looming in the background amongst the swirling fog.

Saturday, July 23, 2011
In front of Taal Volcano

I wasn't prepared for the brokenness I would see in the coming days.

I had fair warning. I knew before hand about the poverty and the hopelessness and the empty eyes and the bowed heads. Heads bowed in hopeless shame, not heart-lifting prayer.

I saw the broken. I saw every shattered piece spewed all over that country.

And as I spoke to the broken, dined with the broken, as I entered the home of the broken, I broke.

And I found myself broken because when you make the broken your family, you realize you are broken too.

And that is a beautiful thing.

Broken like the hotel shuttle driver, chained in debt and sickness. Broken like the maid, trapped in the world of an illiterate woman. Broken like the slums and the people in it, with their dead animals and even deader eyes.

Broken like the body of Christ, hanging on that cross.

Because only when we are broken, does the Healer rain that healing rain.

If He has nothing to heal, how can he be the Healer?

Only when we have nothing, is the Sustainer our everything.

If we need more than only Him, how is He our everything? Is He then no more than just our portion?

Shattered, broken, weak. My Father promises that is when His power is made perfect.

Amongst the broken, the Almighty says "My grace is sufficient for you."

And I cling to this hope. My only hope.

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