Letter to a Broken Heart

Heartbreak
Originally uploaded by emilygrace.

Dear Broken Heart,

Now that I've met you, touched you with my hands . . . Now that you're here, and I feel you, I'm pretty certain we've never really met before.

And now that my mind and soul are forced to share a space with you, I feel impoverished in every way. Except for this pen. And these lined pages. And prayers that have yet to be conceived.

L'Engle says something about words being emptied in prayer. Yes. All I have right now is a Lord, help me. And a belief that this cry alone might honor God in prayer--recognizing God's sovereignty and how much I need my Creator.

Could these tears be prayers? If so, I wet my pillow in prayer for the entire world, a world that feeds you, Broken Heart. Feeds you with lies that lead us and deception that decides for us. Feeds you with violence--violence that seeps into our words and pumps blood into our fists and controls our spending. Lord, have mercy.

I weep for those who cheered the execution of Gardner. I weep for those whose lives he stole. For this repetition of folly that trains our children to believe vengeance belongs to us.

I weep for Amira and other immigrants in a strange land. For their financial woes. For my financial woes. I weep that even in my financial despair, I am still considered wealthier than half the world. Lord, have mercy.

I weep for genocide, for war, for trauma, for HIV, for cowardly suicide bombs, for widows, for orphans, for all who sit on the mourners bench. I weep for pregnant bellies of girls too young. I weep for the rapists whose seeds terrorized these too young bodies.

I weep for my father's decisions and my inability to rewind and re-record. And for sweet family memories that seem too far away and hard family memories that seem to linger.

I weep because it's July. And I had William penciled in on my calendar for the whole month. For poetry we never created, for that hug and hongi that never breathed. For moments that seemed so real but mock me now, trying to convince me they were fantasy.

I weep for Wolf and James and Pedro and Tent City. For addiction, depression and trauma that has made the street a home for so many.

I weep because I know the core of my being lives in my heart. I have met her, and she is laughter & playfulness & courage. And there's a guard that stands in front of her keeping her in a tiny chamber while you, Brokenness, scream loudly right now and resound in the rest of my organs and tissues and bones. For her, I weep.

And for her, I also hope. Because she gently whispers that she is strong & grounded & whole. Created for a purpose. She giggles, reminding me that you are in pieces.

And so I will share this space with you until the Artist, my Creator, figures out what kind of mosaic to make out of you.

Until we get to say goodbye,

Ciona

So thankful, Lord, that you never get tired of collecting our pieces and reassembling them. -Kim Thomas
(letter started June 18, 2010, in my journal)