My moto jacket is my second skin. I bought it when I moved back to Philadelphia, and it’s accompanied me on many crisp, late-night walks. It survived a particularly fetid journey on the Paris Metro and a drenching surprise thunderstorm in Ankara.
It’s also shredded. Tiny rips trail up the sleeves, the bottom edges are worn down, I keep tacking down fraying stitches, and the leather’s gouged from years of urban spelunking.
It’s time for this thing to retire. But its shiny pleather successor, fortuitously snatched from a summer clearance rack, still hangs in my closet.
Because this jacket is useful. It’s softened and molded to my body. It yields.
I keep thinking about how hard times work in a similar way on our souls if we let the Holy Spirit do his thing. Life has a tendency to wear on us, and I wish we’d acknowledge that a bit more instead of pasting on a church-ready “I’m fine” smile. There’s a reason why blues music is so good—it strokes the deepest feelings of human existence. It resonates.
I was talking with a good friend a bit ago about the idea of latent brokenness: that as we get older, we become more aware that people are not as put together as we think (fear?). For every person visibly coming apart at the seams, there’s a bunch of people who suffer similarly in quiet.
But inside, as the Spirit mends throughout difficulty, the weak sectors of our souls get reinforced. The frayed edges get tacked down. He molds us so we become more like Christ. And then we can turn to comfort others. This is the exciting part. The latent brokenness suddenly becomes useful. And those who used to endure in silence find kinship together.
In this season, my heart/brain gets a jolt of thankfulness every once in a while. I see how God provides in the day, especially in small ways. My favorite sparks are meaningful conversations with coworkers, or an answer to prayer (especially when I didn’t ask for it). I don’t want these to remain short jolts. I want to rest in this. But all I have to offer God is my brokenness. And somehow, He accepts that and begins to shape it.
It’s also shredded. Tiny rips trail up the sleeves, the bottom edges are worn down, I keep tacking down fraying stitches, and the leather’s gouged from years of urban spelunking.
It’s time for this thing to retire. But its shiny pleather successor, fortuitously snatched from a summer clearance rack, still hangs in my closet.
Because this jacket is useful. It’s softened and molded to my body. It yields.
I keep thinking about how hard times work in a similar way on our souls if we let the Holy Spirit do his thing. Life has a tendency to wear on us, and I wish we’d acknowledge that a bit more instead of pasting on a church-ready “I’m fine” smile. There’s a reason why blues music is so good—it strokes the deepest feelings of human existence. It resonates.
I was talking with a good friend a bit ago about the idea of latent brokenness: that as we get older, we become more aware that people are not as put together as we think (fear?). For every person visibly coming apart at the seams, there’s a bunch of people who suffer similarly in quiet.
But inside, as the Spirit mends throughout difficulty, the weak sectors of our souls get reinforced. The frayed edges get tacked down. He molds us so we become more like Christ. And then we can turn to comfort others. This is the exciting part. The latent brokenness suddenly becomes useful. And those who used to endure in silence find kinship together.
In this season, my heart/brain gets a jolt of thankfulness every once in a while. I see how God provides in the day, especially in small ways. My favorite sparks are meaningful conversations with coworkers, or an answer to prayer (especially when I didn’t ask for it). I don’t want these to remain short jolts. I want to rest in this. But all I have to offer God is my brokenness. And somehow, He accepts that and begins to shape it.
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