Does brokenness betray beauty?
I look at me and that’s all I see.
In all I thought was glorious I see the depths of pain.
In all I thought was mysterious I see the veil of fear.
In all I thought was beautiful I see a coping with brokenness.
Is all beauty a covering? A justification of pain?
I cannot believe it.
There is beauty in a sunset.
There is beauty in a face.
Neither born of broken things.
Creation’s heart exposed in glory.
Can I believe the same of my heart?
Of yours?
Where is the hope of glory?
Where is the adventure of mystery?
Where is the purity of beauty?
When uncovered in the light of honesty
all I see is the brokenness. The fear. The pain.
Is beauty born only of these things?
Is it then really beauty at all?
My beauty has become ugly to me.
Sad to me.
Hush, you who would still this cry.
This is I, me, myself.
Do not silence my struggle.
Do not try to encourage away my harsh eyes.
Do not try to soften the sharp edges,
Then I may slip on them,
and not be able to climb
to a new place
of seeing, of knowing, of being.
Hear my voice
In it’s rawness.
For brokenness must come to term
that beauty may be born.
Born and loved.
