I closed the gate on the stairs and walked into his room. Immediately, he holds up Sarge--now detached from Filmore. (Filmore is his lovey--a fox with a baby, Sarge, attached to its front.) He searches my face and declares, "He's still...he's still wuvable!"
And before I can stop myself, I fiercely declare, "Of course he is. He is perfectly lovable. Broken things are still lovable."
That ferocity is born out of a need to believe broken things are lovable because I am deeply broken.
A few months before I put him to bed with a puppy gifted to us after the loss of our fourth child. We had nicknamed him Baby Captain Hook, and in homage to that nickname, the puppy was made out of Captain Hook material.
Because little boys are wrecking machines, he came to me an hour later with Captain Hook's eye in his mouth--chewed up and irreparable. "Can you fix it, Mommy?" he asked, believing in special mommy-power.
"No, baby. It's broken. Sometimes when things are broken, they can't be fixed." My breath caught in my throat and emotion worked its way through my system. Tears started running down my face.
"Oh, Mommy. Are you sad? Are you sad about Baby Captain Hook? I'm sad, too."
I nodded my head n response, but I didn't have words in that moment. He didn't need them anyway.
"It's OK, Mommy. He's still wuvable. I still wuv him."
I choked out, "Yeah, Buddy. Broken things are still lovable."
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That sweet honesty has replayed in my mind for some time. Brokenness isn't unfamiliar territory, but something about this season of brokenness has felt foreign. It was unexpected...suffocating...and a crash of realization. We'd spend the last five years building--praying our efforts were for God, but knowing that many of them were for ourselves. We needed recovery, community. And so we threw ourselves into those things and pursued them fervently.
Then we found out we were expecting. And again. And we built a family. We prepared as much as we could for that life shift. Our last pregnancy came as easily as our third, and ended exactly the way our first did. And I looked at the ashes around me and realized most of my investments were empty.
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This summer spreads out in front of me--an open buffet of possibility. I won't be doing much--not in the way of building, anyway. My unmaking has lead me to a season of participation--in my relationships, my communities, but namely with my Savior.
Less doing.
More being.
