Broken Heart Invitation

This Life’s Journey

is full of bumps in the road,

unexpected turns come at us without warning

and all of a sudden we’re faced with situations

that we’ve neither anticipated nor prepared for—

how could we, really?

I don’t know about you,

but I have little to nothing in common with someone

whose life has been uncommonly simple

so as to exclude any tragedy or dysfunction.

Don’t sit me next to a mere mortal at a dinner or luncheon.

I’ll be bored to tears, honestly.

Nothing to say, nothing to comment upon.

The depth of such a person leaves me wanting.

I cannot relate to them in any other way but

a shallow one.

Sit me next to a Hero.

Sit me next to Someone whose life has taken a Scenic Route,

And my soul stirs with a fiery interest.

I want to know how they got through,

whatever it is they got through.

My heart searches theirs for depth and breadth,

strength and inspiration.

I’m not talking about the whiny people I know.

The ones who pout and stamp about at the unfairness of life

and can’t get a grip on their own tragic choices.

While they might be interesting for a few moments

after awhile they resemble a burnt firework—

they had their moment to burn brilliantly,

to show their true colors of courage, strength, wisdom and action

yet instead sat back scratching their heads,

looking around for someone or something to

point a finger of blame on.

Those tragic figures leave me wanting

because I want them to finish telling me

the part that answers the questions:

“What happened next?”

“Then, what’d you do?”

And they mostly shrug their shoulders

indicating to me there’s no hero at the end of this story.

No,

sit me by someone whose journey has bounced them around

good and hard and unforgiving;

where they had to dig deep to find their strength,

cultivate their courage,

seek out wisdom on their knees and 

resources in their grasp,

test their faith in all that they know and believe.

I’m on a fact-finding mission.

Having traveled the Scenic Route,

being raised by wolves,

and other life experiences that came at me

like a meteorite’s sonic boom,

I need to know others who’ve survived to tell the tale.

The fact is,

I know more women who would qualify as a member of

The Broken Heart Club

than women who don’t.

My heroes include those who’ve survived many losses—

Husbands

Children

Miscarriages

Divorces

Dysfunctional Parents

Addictions in their families

Their own addictions

Eating Disorders

Depression

Unemployment

To name a few.

They are women of substance

whom I gravitate towards

because they exemplify grace under pressure.

They refuse to simply burn out.

They believe they have more to offer than that…

they have earned the privilege of having

Another Day to Try Again.

Why this blog today?

It’s because of a young mother named Natalie Jones

whose ten year old son, Mitchell, is living moment to moment

because he has a form of Muscular Dystrophy.

As I have read much about their family this week,

about a woman I have never met,

and yet feel a kinship to,

I realized she and I share something in common:

Broken hearts.

She will let go of her son sooner than I have been asked to let go of mine,

and for that grace, I cannot account for—

I am nevertheless

Grateful.

When my special needs son, Dean was very young

a woman approached me in a mall and after noticing his special shoes/braces

asked me what was wrong with him.

After I answered her,

she asked a second question:

“How long do you expect him to live?”

I was barely 24 years old,

it wasn’t a question I had allowed myself to ask yet

and here was a total stranger

putting me to the task.

I replied I didn’t know.

For days afterwards,

her words rang in my head—

“How long do you expect him to live?”

I had no idea.

There was only one place I could think of

to go to and ask my question:

the Temple.

I went inside and quietly prayed

to my Heavenly Father

asking the question:

“How long will I have Dean?”

I waited for the answer,

determined that I wouldn’t leave until I had one.

An answer from the heavens came:

“It doesn’t matter.”

I argued back,

“Yes, oh yes, it does matter. Please tell me how long I will have Dean.”

The quiet spirit whispered again,

“It doesn’t matter.”

I then pleaded in my heart to heaven,

“It DOES. Oh it DOES. Please tell me how long I will have him.”

A warm peaceful feeling entered my heart and a loving voice touched my mind,

“It doesn’t matter how long you have him,

but how much you Love him.”

I knew that was right.

It was the only thing that mattered.

I felt impressed today

to write to this young mother in Utah

and share my heavenly message with her

in these last days of her son’s journey.

I don’t know her.

I’m one of thousands of people who’ve been led to

Her family’s story, really.

But, if my sharing gives her even a moment of peace,

That’s enough.

We travel this earth over and over,

We broken-hearted.

The best servants are the ones

Who know what suffering feels like.

It is our pain that both binds and lifts us.

Have a broken heart?

Come. Sit by me.

 Here's what I know:

God loves broken things.