We’re all broken Hurting people with bodies snapped like twigs For me, it’s my legs They are broken and I’m lying cold on the wet pavement in the middle of the road Hoping to God that someone will come and carry me I hear footsteps behind me And a voice, easy and kind, Saying to me, “I think I can help you.” The pavement crunches as he sits behind me. He talks to me About life and love Hopes and dreams He is curious about me He asks me questions He keeps talking He jokes with me He remarks on the weather He asks me if I enjoy traveling He keeps talking All the while I’m lying cold on the wet pavement In the middle of the road Dying for this man to stop talking and carry me Tears drip backwards down my temples into my ears My heart races and my blood boils My pulse pounds in my neck I want him to swallow his tongue and choke on it I finally scream: “Stop talking, damnit!” He stops. I feel a little remorse but not enough to stop me from demanding: “Just shut up and carry me!” I hear him sigh The pavement crunches again as he stands up He walks in front of me. My heart stops. Both his arms are broken. “I'm sorry,” he said, Tears dripping down his cheek “I can't.” He walks away, and I begin to cry.
I had this vision in my head as I wrestled through severe disappointment with a person who tried to help me, but failed. They just couldn’t be what I needed, and I was so angry — until I recognized where their brokenness was.
Brene Brown’s question in her book “Rising Strong” rolled around in my head: “Do you believe people are doing the best they can?” I thought about that for a long time as I sifted through my emotions with this person. Did I really believe they did their best to help me?
Sometimes, no matter how hard a person loves or cares for you, their own brokenness keeps them from carrying you in yours. That doesn’t mean they don’t want to, and that doesn’t mean they won’t try. Their clumsy attempts can build a fortification of resentment and bitterness around our hearts, and we start to believe the lie that they don’t want to help, but that isn’t true. They simply can’t. While this doesn’t always offer comfort, it does help us extend a strange sort of grace to human frailty that we know all too well.
Because I always aim to offer hope, here is a soul-reminder:
Rest assured that if you are the one left lying cold on the wet pavement somewhere, you are not permanently broken; that’s the beauty of how humans were created – spirits and bodies can heal, and we are in close relationship with the One who designed our healing. Your healing journey may involve a person, a community, a program, therapy, a message or word, a dog (come on now), silence, solitude, lament, grief… the list really does go on.
Let us extend grace to those who try, mercy to those who fail us, and hope for those who see no end to their broken existence. And let us remember that unlike the poor man in the poem, our Healer will never leave us helpless and broken.