Broken Needles
The past two or three weeks have been massively challenging for us as a family. Several of us have come into contact with some virus or other, and for many days we've been down with fevers, headaches, upset stomachs, difficulty breathing, and other symptoms. Being in a season of pandemic, we've brought all the restrictions that were once limited to the outside world into our home: masks, distance from one another, no physical contact, and sleeping in separate spaces. As disruptive as this season of quarantine had been to this point, it was nothing compared to the impact on family life.
On one particularly difficult day--each kid working separately on school work (remotely from home, because of illness), Micah at school working, me in bed hit hardest by the bug--one of our kids sat on the end of my bed. He was angry, lonely, and tired. I tried talking him down and offering what little comfort I could at arm's length. I had been working on making a sweater as I'd recovered in bed. Upset, he picked up the wooden knitting needle I'd been using--an item he knew was a favorite. He pulled it over his knee, as though he planned to break it.
I held his gaze without a word, looking into his eyes. We sat like that for several moments. I knew him. He was angry, he would threaten; but he would never break something of mine. He wouldn't actually do it. I trusted him--
CRACK
I looked down to see the needle splintered and broken in his hands. He gave me one final look, set it down on the bed, and walked out.
I sat for a very long time looking at the shattered wood. It was a knitting needle; in the big picture, it meant nothing to me. But something about the whole encounter reverberated through me. I felt betrayed. I felt injured at a deep, deep level. It was as though the knitting needle incident had been a microcosm of everything else that was happening in life.
I have had knitting needle moments before. Times when the possibility of something painful hangs in the air: job loss, miscarriage, financial ruin, illness, disability. I level my gaze at God, and I wait. I know him. He loves me. He wouldn't actually do it. I trust him--
CRACK
My world is shattered by loss, by pain, by suffering. It falls to pieces in my hands and I'm left with the pain of the situation and another pain even deeper: a sense of betrayal.
How could a God who loves me allow this? I trusted him to be good, I trusted him to protect me. And now, as I stand in the ashes--how could he? Doesn't he love me?
We are taught, sometimes, to believe that in the Christian life everything works out neatly for those of us who love God. We are spared from hardship and loss. God, the provider, ensures that nothing will harm us or hurt us.
While it's true that God provides, that he works all things out for the good of those who love us, it is absolutely a fallacy that we are exempt from suffering. In fact, he promises that there will be trouble in this life. Perhaps more so for us than for those who do not know and love him! He promises to work for the good of us who love him--that in the end, there will be beauty from ashes and life from dry bones. He promises to be with us every step of the way. He promises to protect us from evil, and from spiritual forces.
But he never promises we'll be spared from brokenness.
When our lives fall apart, there are two sides to the pain: the hurt of the actual situation, and the hurt of reconciling that situation with a God of love. It's the reality of every broken place in our lives, whether we talk about it or not. We feel ashamed of it. We try to talk ourselves out of the second hurt, or tell ourselves we shouldn't feel that way.
Yet what we do with our brokenness is vitally important. We do ourselves a disservice when we try to wrap our painful experiences up neatly, couched in church-isms and well-wishes. When we try to sanitize or stuff the hurt of broken places. Fullness--full life, full healing--requires us to acknowledge the whole picture. To own up to what we really feel in our moments of suffering: betrayal, abandonment, confusion, anger.
When we face the fullness of the hurt, we can ask the hard questions. We can wrestle with the disconnect between what we expected of a God of love, and the reality of him. We can work through the sense of betrayal and find that he is faithful and trustworthy. Each cycle of suffering and honesty builds our understanding of him--a right understanding-- and helps our faith to stand the test when the next hard season shatters our life.
I've been afraid to acknowledge betrayal. As life has been turned upside down once more, I've grappled with the pain of isolation and uncertainty, of fears about health and loneliness and mental wellness. The worst we could imagine has happened on many fronts; the needle has been broken. We hold the shattered pieces in our hands. What do we do with the feelings of betrayal? With the lingering anger? With the confusion, and all the uncomfortable places?
We can be honest. With God. With one another. With ourselves. Don't run from the emotions, and certainly don't hide them. On the other side of honesty is healing and deeper faith. And woven throughout all of it, always, is love.
Photo credit: https://www.livemaster.com/item/24804141-tools-giant-knitting-needle-for-thick-yarn-made-of-wood-20mm-
