Broken in Secret Places

The other day as I was emptying our dishwasher, I pulled a glass out that was in much worse condition than it had been when I put it in. Strangely, part of the glass had just broken off. It was not shattered into a million pieces, but had simply come apart. (Adding to the peculiarity was the fact that the cups around it in the dishwasher had all been plastic, making all obvious scenarios as to how the glass had broken highly unlikely.) When I showed it to my husband, he said something that got me thinking.

“It might just have been a weak place from where it was made. We couldn’t have known it was there until it broke.”

And then I began thinking about something…….

Several years ago, when I was in my worst place emotionally and mentally, I made a trip to Wal-Mart. It should have been a routine trip to the store, and most people in the world would have thought it was. For me, though, it was difficult and devastating and enough to crumble an already unstable little world. Something was said to me in the store that, again, would not have affected most people to the extent it did me (if at all). For me, however, it was the end of the world; I literally retreated to my car, where I sat and cried and pounded the steering wheel and trembled and screamed for at least half an hour before regaining my composure enough to drive safely home. I remember saying to myself, “If she knew what I deal with, she wouldn’t have said that to me. If she knew how hard it was for me to even leave the house this morning, she would have been nicer about that. If she only knew….. If she only knew……” Rattled and teary, I drive home and tried to continue with my day. (I never did accomplish what I set out that morning to do. In light of the attack I felt I had received, it was unimportant.)

As I type that last sentence, I again see the truth of what happened.

I felt I had received an attack, so the attack was real. I perceived what had happened as terrible and hurtful and personal, so for me, they were. The woman who said the offending words to me did not mean anything by them, and I’m sure she had no idea the effect they had on me or that I am thinking about them over five years later. The problem, I realize, was in my perception of the words, and in how the lenses through which I see the world tint all that I experience. In a counseling class years ago, we learned that perception is reality. If I perceive something as offensive, it doesn’t matter the intentions behind it. If I perceive it as being offensive to me, it is. Period.

The Wal-Mart incident is not unique in my life and, maybe, in yours. Maybe the offending blow came from a friend, rather than a stranger. Maybe it came at home, rather than in a public place, and maybe instead of crying in solitude you reacted with a harsh word.

Regardless of the circumstances, though, the attacks come, and they can break us. Maybe they have broken you, and maybe instead of friendly understanding, your brokenness was met with criticism and more harshness.

Because of my own experiences, God has gracious allowed me to see something clearly that helps me to process those things when they do happen.

Those issues I have – the ones that are so vulnerable to idle words and casual remarks – are my secret broken places. Those are the places in my heart and my soul and my past that have left me scarred and, perhaps, weakened.

No one sees the cracks in my exterior….the weak patches in my makeup that threaten to give way at any moment.

They don’t know, for example, that if they comment jokingly on my clothing, that I spent an inordinate amount of time considering what to wear and that, as I did so, I dreaded and even anticipated the remarks and thoughts others would have about my outfit.

They have no way of knowing that, and don’t know that the next day, as I dress, I will be thinking of their words and trying to fight back tears and the certainty that someone that day will think something badly of me, too.

No can knows about the cracks in my carefully assembled exterior unless I am willing to expose them…and that, in a real way, makes the exterior unnecessary. When there is nothing on the inside that we feel we have to hide, there is no need for a perfect facade. Vulnerability can be the most liberating exterior.

No…I should not walk around exposing every weakness at every opportunity, making people feel as though no subject is safe for conversation with me lest something offend my delicate makeup.

But yes…..I should realize that what someone says to me is, most likely, intended harmlessly and that I, because of my weak places, perceive them otherwise. Perhaps the other person is thoughtless in the way they speak to people, and perhaps their words are spoken with a little more sting than sweetness. I can have no control over that.

I can, however, control how I receive what they say. I can allow myself to be crushed and broken and devastated by words, or I can choose to see them differently…to guard myself from attacks, real or perceived…to understand that as I am not responsible for the words coming from someone else’s mouth, they are not responsible for how I receive them.

Yes, people should be sensitive to the power their words have on others. We should all realize that words carry with them the power of life and death. We should take our words and our actions seriously, because we don’t know what brokenness someone is carrying with them today.

However, because we are human, words will fly carelessly. Words will be slung that should never be allowed to see the light of day. Tone of voice is hard to control, and in bad moments words seem get lives of their own. It is true, and even as I can bear witness to the pain words can cause, I know that my words have inflicted pain on others.

Much talk is given to how each person should have a filter to control what words are allowed to leave their mouths. What if, just as well, we all have filters whose sole purpose is to regulate what can come into our souls? What if we took responsibility for what comes in just as much as what goes out? How different would all of our lives be?