and

I started writing when my son was small, back when everyone had a mom blog. Me included. 

To my surprise people read it, encouraged me and a few even and told me that I should write a book. I inhaled books, loved seeing my words unfold on the page and loved even more the idea that my words could impact someone else. I went to a writing conference and even met with a publisher. But, I couldn’t quite live up to my best supporters hopes. Then, even as much as I loved the process, I wasn’t sure I knew what my story was yet. I only knew how to pay attention and to ramble, which was close but not quite enough. Even in high school writing assignments made me uncomfortable. When I write I feel naked. That I only know how to write the truth. And at that point in my life I wasn’t ready for all of the truth.

My story found me and so did the truth. The first nearly wrecked me and the other came much later in a quiet office that smelled like essential oils and tea. I’m still learning it. 

I was afraid, even in the midst of it, that pain was going to be my story. 

Eventually, pain is everyone’s story. And frankly not even an interesting one.

Someone who knew me then, complained about her own level of pain, and ended with the caveat that of course it is nothing like mine.

And I called bullsh*t. Pain is pain. 

It isn’t a badge of honor. Only this awful thing that we all share, eventually. 

I tried again, a decade later to write my story. This time around I have a much better idea of who I am and what I have to say. I know and trust in my voice, but I still struggled. I found myself just moving words when I had expected them to finally pour out. 

I think because I was telling the wrong story. Which makes me ask - if pain isn’t the story then what is? In a kinder moment to myself - I think maybe it is strength.

And hesitate. Some part of me misremembering a Sunday School half truth.

The song we sang over and over as kids, “They are weak, but He is strong” 

Somehow making weakness seem closer to God. But that wasn’t quite the line Paul gave us in 2 Corinthians.  “When I am weak, then I am strong”- weakness builds strength, not diminishes it. There is no favor in being weak. Only opportunity. It is where the story starts but not where it ends. 

Even before I had a scar from brain surgery sliding behind my left ear, I have found the idea of kintsugi beautiful. Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with powdered gold. The cracks become the centerpiece. The few times I’ve tried to glue something back together, my hope has always been that the glue was clear and seams pressed close enough together that no one would notice. Kintsugi does the opposite. The repair shimmers on full display, making the piece far more beautiful than it had been before. I hide my scars while this form of art gives them the stage. That is about the bravest thing I can imagine.

Most days I do feel strong. I have had to persevere with courage. 

I want to see my scars as beautiful, rather than sometimes just evidence of being broken. 

And that isn’t the story either. 

My husband makes beautiful things with his hands, but I mostly only use words. However on whim, I ordered a Kintsugi kit off of Etsy thinking I’d make a few Christmas gifts from it. I didn’t pay enough attention to realize I was ordering from Europe and the kit showed up in February, instead of December. Just another reminder that gifts, especially in the form of broken things, often take their sweet time. 

The picture online showed a beautiful cup with dramatic gold veins throughout. 

I thought maybe the kit would come with some pottery pieces for me to restore and that my finished product would look just like the picture. 

Instead, it came with gold powder, a brush, instructions and some glue.

Pottery not included. 

Now, I have far too many coffee cups to fit on the shelf. But I still hesitated to try it out. 

Because I realized what I’d have to do. Before I could glue something back together with gold, making it stronger and more beautiful - first it would have to be broken. Now my teenagers would have loved the opportunity to take a hammer to some of my favorite mugs, but I was more hesitant. Not that I love my cups that much, but because I understood the symbolism.  

I don’t want to shatter to restore.

I don’t want to be broken to be made beautiful. 

I don’t want to be made weak to be made strong. 

I want to skip that step.  

I want to skip the pain and the brokenness and the waiting and the being put back together.

I only want the beauty and the strength. 

But I’m starting to realize that those things come last.

Or more likely the middle, because I hope I live a life long enough and full enough to do it all over again. 

I put on the gloves and mixed my gold and epoxy. 

My daughter shows up. I’m glad to have company and an extra set of hands, because most repairs, in people and pottery,  require help. Our first attempt was a little messy. As I suspect most attempts at this kind piecing back together can be. We were both amazed that it worked. At how the shimmery lines stood out on the dark cup. The instructions were very clear that this kit was for decorative purposes only.

I couldn’t help it. I filled up my cup with water anyways. 

Not to drink, but just to see. 

It held. And I suspect I will too. 

My small box that traveled across a big ocean contained only epoxy and gold powder. 

I took a hammer to a tea cup. Separately they were just powder and glue and broken pieces. 

Together they made a beautiful reminder that my scars and broken places tell a story of redemption and hope. My story isn’t about pain or strength. 

It is about pain AND strength. 

It is about brokenness AND beauty.

It is about fear AND hope.

All of it is the story. 

Mine and everyone else’s. 

It has been all along. 

The beauty is not in the strength or even the gold. 

It is in the cracks AND the restoration.

The cross AND redemption. 

My broken and tired hard heart AND my tender one.