Beyond the Brokenness

When we moved back to California last fall after nine years away, the first thing I did was drive past our old house. I wanted to show my daughter the first home she ever knew, the sidewalk where she practiced her first steps and the rose bushes whose blooms I trimmed to fill vases in every room all year round. I wanted my kids to see the front door their Papa painted for us, and the place where their dad cut down a giant olive tree using nothing but a small axe. I wanted to show them the house that held seven years of memories, the house that hosted seven years of Super Bowl parties and birthday parties, baby showers and bridal showers, church small groups, and Bible studies. It was the house that homed our first dog, Ruby, and the house that held our tears after six failed adoptions. It was our very first house, purchased after two years of newlywed living in a little apartment, our pride and joy. It was the house where we became a family and I was eager to share it with my kids.

As I made my way through the streets of our former town I was confused; nothing looked quite like how I remembered. The main road was lined with litter and there were liquor stores and dispensaries on every block. Weeds poked up through an abundance of sidewalk cracks, limp and brown, struggling to thrive in their bleak surroundings. Graffiti covered the cinder block walls separating our old neighborhood from the busy intersection. My hands gripped the steering wheel as I tried to remember if it had always been this way. I turned the corner and cringed as I navigated the road leading to our former abode. Every house looked more dilapidated than the one before. I cringed as I rolled the car to a stop in front of our corner lot that was once lush and green. I rolled down the window and stared, disappointment rendering me speechless.

There was our house, the white vinyl siding familiar as ever, but it stood amid a front lawn of nothing but overgrown weeds and scorched, lifeless grass the color of straw. Gone were the rose bushes and white picket fence; in their place were rusty patio furniture and broken bits of pottery. The mulch and soil had been cleared to reveal dry, brown earth, unwatered and unloved. The wooden fence which we had so lovingly stained and treated each year, was splintered, faded, and completely broken in places, exposing a backyard that had long since expired. Staring at us from behind the weather-beaten fence was what remained of the great pine trees we used to hang a hammock from. The trunks, as tall as the house, had been stripped bare of life and limb, robbing the yard of both shade and dignity. I swallowed a lump in my throat as I tried to paint a picture of what it used to be for my backseat passengers.

For a long time, I sat there squinting my eyes to see past the broken exterior and find remnants of the life that made this place so special. I envisioned the sidewalk chalk that used to cover the front steps and the toddler-sized water table that was a permanent fixture on the porch. I remembered my daughter’s giggles as she rolled a soccer ball down the steep incline of the driveway. I recalled the fragrance of the rose bushes as I made my way to the front door after a long day’s work. It was all still there. Every memory was still held safely in this now desolate plot of land. Time had not been good to the house, but our story there was unaltered. It was now just a house, but in my memory, it would always be our home. It’s hard to believe a house so beaten and barren has ever been anything more than that, but everything has a past. Everything has pieces of a story rich in love, laughter, and warmth, even the broken and barren things. The passage of time isn’t always kind, but that doesn’t make the past irrelevant, just harder to recover. We need only to look beyond the brokenness.

Maybe you’ve come across an old friend from your past, or a family member you were once close with, and been surprised by how their life turned out. “What happened to you?” you wonder dumbfoundedly. Maybe their appearance, lifestyle, financial situation, or quality of life is unexpected, disappointing even. It’s tempting to focus on their current condition, to pass judgment on what we see from the outside. But they didn’t get there all at once. My old house was in stellar condition the day we moved out, but a series of owners and decisions over nine years led it to fall into disrepair. Sometimes life deals a tough hand, relationships go sour, money runs out, or devastating loss leaves us broken and bitter. It’s there when we need those we love most to remind us of who we once were. We need reassurance that all is not lost and that the story we hold is just as valuable as the reality we face. Yes, we are a bit worn down, neglected even, but we are not forgotten. Even if others struggle to see beyond the surface, God never does. When life has left us abused and abandoned, God sees what makes us special. He lovingly reminds us that He has created us for a purpose. We have unique gifts that mean something to this world. We are precious and treasured. No amount of worldly trial could change that.

The suede teddy bear my son’s had since he was a baby has long since lost its stuffing and had both ears transplanted. It’s limp and faded, barely resembling its former self. That bear has been with us through three cross-country moves and countless vacations. Despite all the washes, it looks a little worse for wear but it is no less special. My son is eight years old now but he still sleeps with that bear tucked under his arm every night. He looks past the faded fabric, the eyes hanging by a thread, and the matted ears, and he sees his treasured bedtime pal. No matter what becomes of the bear, the memories our son has with it will live on forever. I’ve offered to “re-stuff” the bear and give it new life, but my son insists the bear’s floppiness is what gives him character. “It’s part of who he is!” He’s not wrong. Every mismatched, misshapen piece of that bear tells a story. It is no less loved today than it was the day we brought it home from the store. God loves you and me just as much today as He did the day He created us. Our scars don’t keep Him from holding us tight, they are part of who we are. God loves all of us, even the brokenness.

Stuffed animals don’t last forever. Neither do houses for that matter, but they don’t always stay in a dilapidated state either. Sometimes a new owner comes along and breathes new life into old bones. Sometimes all it takes is a keen eye to see the potential in the brokenness, and a commitment to see it through. The right person can look at the mess in front of them and see what lies beneath the surface. Have you ever watched a home renovation on television and heard the gasp when beautiful, original hardwood floors are revealed beneath stained, outdated carpet? Designers get so excited when they find remnants of what the house used to be. They can’t wait to restore it to its former glory. God feels the same way about you and me. He is our Designer, unearthing the parts of our story that need to be polished off and shown to the world. He rips back the layers of hurt and failure to uncover a breathtaking masterpiece. He embraces the challenge because He knows there is more to us than meets the eye. There is a lifetime of history that can be repurposed and reclaimed for His glory, and it starts by seeing beyond the brokenness.

Our first house, 2014

Nine years later