broken.

The sound of breaking glass is not unfamiliar in this house.

It no longer alarms me.

Earlier this week my little Willow carried broken green remnants in to me in the kitchen.  She was holding what used to be a hand made mug crafted by my aunt in Hawaii thirty-seven years ago.  It was a pair.  Now its partner will forever be alone.

Yesterday Berg called to me from the bedroom.  “Mommy?  Can you come see this?”

And in his hands he held the curtains from the kitchen door.  Curtains that are meant to be on the kitchen door – not in his hands.  The hook itself was damaged and repair work was certainly needed.

The front door of our house is so sticky that it takes a strong shoulder shoved against the frame to open it.

(Oh, and one of the panels of glass is broken out and currently held in place with a USPS cardboard box until it can be repaired.  It was a sword fighting accident the first night we had our pastor and his family over for dinner.  They weren’t sword fighting.  London was.  With a nerf sword.)

The doors on our dresser are warped from this summer’s high humidity level inside our home.  It is impossible to close them now.

At last count there are four other broken windows in our house.

If you think it sounds like we live in a ghetto – well, you wouldn’t be entirely right I guess.

I don’t cherish broken windows.

But I don’t really hate them either.

I do sit around and wonder sometimes – will it always be not quite good enough?  Will we always have not quite really arrived?

I don’t know.

I guess so.

Yes.

It’s just a crooked little reminder of all the brokeness and all the beauty juxtaposed side by side in our every day kind of existence.

The double.

The both.

What is broken is beautiful.