Heart Puddles and Poppy-Red Hope

Living in another country for an extended amount of time has always been one of my life goals, dreams, wishes, hopes, etc. It seemed like the epitome of adventure, experiencing another culture and having all the best Facebook photos.

Little did I know how hard it would be.

My reality only matches those awesome Facebook pictures for about as long as it takes for the photo to be shot. There are some really sunshine filled, freeze-frame moments, where I find myself saying, “Wait. Is this really my life?” But I’ve also found myself pulling the covers over my head and hugging my stuffed dolphin closer to my face, going back to sleep because I just don’t feel like I’m ready to handle the day ahead. Or the missing is too much.

The stripped weakness and the swallowed missing startled me. I didn’t expect to miss or long for anything else because here I am living my lifelong dream.

I knew living in another country would stretch me, but I didn’t know it would be like this. That my core truths would be questioned. That I would spend so much time crying. That I’d revisit just how nothing I am. That I would feel shattered.

I’ve been puddling my heart before the God of the Universe. Here it is, God; this confused, longing piece of soul and flesh. Sorry for the fragments. I can’t seem to figure out how to hold it all together and not be so fractured.

 

In this stranded and spread loneliness, I’ve come to a conclusion. Hearts are meant to be broken. And what a gift it is to love so deeply and widely that shattering happens every day. Sometimes I want to lock my empathizing heart away to protect it because I know that the smallest bit of heart-caring will eventually result in body-splitting and soul-shearing pain. But then again, what is the point of living and moving through this world without caring deeply for others?

We need people to care. Who will break their heart for the case of the old man in the nursing home? Or the girl forced to sell her body on the street? Or the child in need of a loving home?

You are who you are today because somebody chose to care for you at the risk of their heart or maybe because someone didn’t.

Hearts are meant to be broken.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.” – C.S. Lewis

Mending has come in the form of long runs through fields slowly turning green and cinnamon sugary pastries bought on the street side. God speaks words to me in red bursts of bobbing poppy flowers. You are my sought-out delight.

As my tennis shoes pound dirt paths, I have wrestled, demanding to understand and trying to coax God to my plans, but out of breath and sweat-wrinkled, my ground-out and teeth-gritted words stumble out of me, “I don’t understand, Lord, but I will try to trust you.”

So, God,

Here I am, heart-exposed and oh-so-frail. I’m tired of planning, whining, weeping. Hands up. I’ve felt deserted and desolate like Jerusalem, but you promise she will be a royal diadem in your hand. May I be something shiny and priceless too?

Even as heart pieces lay in fractures on the ground, I hope you are arranging them into a stain-glassed mosaic that will color the world with snippets of your love as I try to let you shine through my life. Lead my heart to more love and to more shattered moments to add to your mosaic.