Broken, Broken, Broken

We have doctors because of broken bodies.  We have counselors because of broken minds.  We have mechanics because of broken cars.  We have divorce attorneys because of broken marriages.  We have foster homes because of broken families.  We have entire prison systems because of broken people.  We have repairmen because of broken pipes and broken TVs.  We have broken systems to replace other broken systems.  Broken, broken, broken.  All of it.

We live and move and find ourselves living in a fundamentally broken world.  It's inescapable, unavoidable.  And for whatever reason, that thought is crashing down around me here lately. (Although, clearly it's a recurring thought considering I wrote about it similarly maybe six months ago.)  Probably because I have to stare at it every day I go to work now, where I feel like all I do is think about broken people and broken systems and hope to figure out a way to make them less broken.  A vast majority of us spend our lives righting wrongs, in some way, shape or form.  And if our jobs or our lives aren't directly involved in fixing what's broken, then we are at the very least operating within the confines of broken relationships and broken structures and broken systems, working alongside broken people.

It gets overwhelming at times.  I feel like I'm fighting an uphill battle, one where nothing ever seems to change.  I look at the statistics for orphans in Africa - one site says 53.1 million orphans in sub-Saharan Africa alone - and I think, "It's never going to change."  We have countless non-profits and NGOs at work and there never seems to be a dent in the problem.  I look at the statistics for some of the work I do now - however many hundreds of thousands of children in Ohio - and I'm reaching a couple hundred who might have autism.  And I still want to think, "It's never going to change."  It all seems insurmountable.  I get bogged down, wanting to chuck all efforts, telling myself because I can't save them all, then I shouldn't bother saving any. (I know, I'm quite the pessimist.  Bad habit.  I'm working on it.)

Yes, the reality is that it's never going to get any easier.  On this side of heaven, I'm never going to live and function in a world that is fully whole and healthy and without blemish.  But that is never an excuse for me to not do something.  How easy would it have been for Jesus to say, "I can't save them all - not all of them will embrace me - therefore I shouldn't bother saving any of them.  Let's ditch the cross.  It's a wasted effort."  That thought occurred to me earlier tonight while driving home from work and I got so overwhelmed I was nearly in tears.  Because I'm so grateful that Jesus came back for this one.  He came after me.  He didn't leave me behind and say, "Figure it out for yourself.  You broke, you fix it."  It's completely absurd when I think about how outrageous and scandalous that is.  He came after the one.  I think of the four friends who brought their paralyzed friend to Jesus.  They dug a hole in some stranger's roof, for crying out loud, just to get their friend to Jesus.  What if I lived with that kind of courage, just for the sake of one person?      

“Suppose one of you had a hundred sheep and lost one. Wouldn’t you leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the lost one until you found it? When found, you can be sure you would put it across your shoulders, rejoicing, and when you got home, call in your friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Celebrate with me! I’ve found my lost sheep!’ Count on it—there’s more joy in heaven over one sinner’s rescued life than over ninety-nine good people in no need of rescue."  Luke 15:4-7 (MSG)   

Jesus left the ninety-nine - heck, he left the legions in heaven - and he came after the one. I likewise have to go after the one, whomever it is.  Yes, we're all a little broken.  Yes, we live in a broken world with broken systems, broken governments, broken people, broken relationships.  But I've got to go after the one.  I don't want to spend my days in hopeless defeat, staring at all that is bad in this world, feeling like it's all a lost cause.  I'll spend the rest of my life paralyzed if that's what I choose.  Somehow, someway, I've got to take courage from Jesus and go back for the one who is lost - in my job, in my family, in my church, wherever.  Because Jesus came back for this one who was lost.

"Do I still think there will be a day when all wrongs are made right, when our souls find the completion they are looking for?  I do.  But when all things are made right, it won’t be because of some preacher or snake-oil salesman or politician or writer making promises in his book.  I think, instead, this will be done by Jesus.  And it will be at a wedding.  And there will be a feast."  - Donald Miller    

    

Conversations with Dirt

I found myself standing out in the drizzle and cold in a small town in Virginia this past December, staring down at a small plot of earth, having a conversation in my head with the dirt and the body that was now buried six feet below.  At various points, I wasn't sure if it was teardrops or rain getting in my eyes.  It was so compulsory, so involuntary, the conversation that ran through my head.  But it was like every other conversation I had with Jon when he was alive - simple, comfortable, without effort.

And in that moment, as I stood over that gravestone marker, I realized how much I still missed my friend and how much I still wished he was here.  

It will be a year ago tomorrow that I got that dreaded phone call from Pastor Brad.  "He's gone, Courtney."  Blast it all, Brad.  Don't tell me that.  Not today.  Not now.  Don't tell me my friend is gone.  My keys were nearly in hand.  I was just coming to visit him at the hospital.  Don't tell me he's gone.     

There have been a lot of moments since then when I have found myself absentmindedly thinking, "Ah, I should remember to tell Jon about that."  Or maybe I'll think to myself, "Jon would find that funny."  I watched The Civil Wars perform on the Grammy's last year.  I wanted to tell Jon about it.  I saw a sign last week for the first game of the Blue Jackets' hockey season.  I wanted to text him to see if he had bought tickets yet.  I still watch The Big Bang Theory and laugh and wonder if Jon would have found it funny, too.  I've watched countless movies and told myself about all of the details that Jon would have picked up on, the ones I always seemed to miss.  I ran my finger across the books on my shelf and counted all the books that Jon randomly bought for me over the years - War Horse, South, Touch the Top of the World.  

Those memories are bittersweet, but I'm grateful I have them nonetheless.  They are marks of a friendship and a friend that I will forever remember and be shaped by.  The sadness still comes on occasion - and I've learned that it's okay.  I've learned to welcome it with open arms.  I've learned to not apologize for the tears when I have conversations with others about Jon and what he meant.  I've accepted the reality that I'll probably never make it through "Never Once" by Matt Redman ever again without thinking of Jon or wanting to cry.   

And I know I'm not alone in that grief or sadness.  What his family has experienced - is experiencing - eclipses whatever I might feel.  But in the end - we all know the same reality: we'll see Jon again.  Heaven isn't some pipe dream, not something we're wishing is true.  It's real.  And my friend is there.  Walking. Dancing. Celebrating. Rejoicing.  And as much as I want my friend here - I want him there more. 

We are not people without hope.  Our hope is in Jesus Christ and Him alone.  And we'll cling to Him and run to Him when the waves of life sweep over us, threaten to send us tumbling down to the abyss, when the memories get to be just a bit too much.

And I'll cling to Him even when I find myself having a conversation with a piece of dirt.