I’ve had my heart broken a multitude of times. In fact, I sometimes think my heart must look like some sort of Frankenstein-ish heart covered in scars.
The scars are there. I know because sometimes when I think back on those times when my heart was crushed, the old wounds flare up inside my chest.
Most recently, I had a fresh wound to my heart when I learned that my ex-husband would not be sending my sons to see me over the summer here in Kentucky. They live with him in Singapore, and they come home to be with me and my grown daughters each Christmas and over the summer.
For some unknown reason — and it is unknown because he has not even discussed the matter with me, nor has he returned my phone calls — he decided to send them off for other adventures this summer.
Because of my financial situation, I have no recourse but to accept his decision. The boys, my daughters and I have nothing we can do. He has the power and money; we do not.
I’m powerless. For some reason, God likes to get me in that position to do his work in me.
Anyone who knows me, knows how much I love my children. In fact, I live and breath my kids and and grandkids — if you doubt, check out the plethora of photos I post to social media — and the thought of not having my boys home with me this summer is unbearable.
My heart lurches in pain as I see reminders in my home of summers past, knowing those memories will not be made this year.
For three days I cried non-stop. I begged friends and family to intervene. I screamed at God to help; yelled at him in anger for allowing my heart to once again be broken.
“Haven’t I had enough,” I demanded to know of God? “Do you want all of my heart destroyed? Tell me!”
After three days, I began “the cure” that has worked for me time and time again.
I began to accept. I began to be generous with my love to those around me. And I began to forgive.
Needless to say, I can do none of those of my own accord, but know I have to be willing to open my bruised, scarred and tender heart to allow God to bind it up and make it whole again.
I can’t dwell in bitterness and anger. I can’t put blame anywhere. It is what it is. I’ve learned that people really do the best that they can with what they have. Not everyone is loving. Not everyone is caring. Not everyone is generous.
I too need to be forgiven for the times I broke other hearts. And I need to forgive myself.
Sometimes, as in the death of a loved one, the wound is not always caused by an action or something someone has done, although sometimes we do question God about the loss.
And sometimes the death is a result of an action that must be forgiven in order to allow healing.
The brokenness can often be directed at ourselves for something that was either lacking in our relationship with the deceased or something we might have done, as seen in hindsight.
I have yet to lose someone to death that I don’t obsess over how I could have been a better friend, daughter … person.
As I nurse my freshly wounded heart today, I am grateful for the cure for a broken heart.
I’m grateful that past hurts have taught me that I will hold little anger and bitterness from this, and I love that God has given me the supernatural ability to continue to love some of the people who have hurt me the most.
I know I will come to forgive my boys’ dad.
It’s just how I roll with God.
It’s never a given, though.
We all have to make that first step in the journey towards healing. But, it will happen if we make the choice to let it happen.
And I have made that choice over and over again. And I will make that choice until the day I die.
Because I know good always comes out a broken heart if we allow God to do his thing.