We, The Broken

For the broken, with love.

There aren’t many things I’m absolutely sure of about myself. But one thing I do know, with unsettling certainty, is that I love broken things. I like to think that’s a good thing, and I try to convince myself that it’s a noble thing, but we all know that broken things have a certain character about them: they cut and there’s no pleasure in spilt blood. At least not for me.

And even if I were someone who lived dangerously, teetering on the edge, I wouldn’t necessarily take pride in pain or suffering. I don’t believe that life must be shrouded in darkness for joy to be meaningful. I don’t think I need the night to appreciate the day — though I do acknowledge that there is beauty in both. Night doesn’t have to be ugly for the day to be stunning.

The point is, broken things can cut and wound and destroy more easily than whole ones and that’s nothing to rejoice in. It would be insane to regard something

conventionally destroyed, useless, and potentially dangerous, and wrap it up with care and diligence, presenting it lovingly, with bows and sparkles, mixed in with all the pointy shards.

But where’s the fun in sanity? Why be safe when I can skid across the very edge of madness?

This penchant of mine isn’t a new discovery. I’ve always known about this strange need to mend broken things, to fix them, or at least love them simply because they are broken. The bruised mango in the fridge that no one wants to eat, mine. The teddy bear with a smile that borders on creepy, mine. The plate with a faint scratch marring its perfect white surface, mine.

I’m not proud of this. I’m not proud of always choosing the bruised and imperfect. Because sometimes, I wish someone would hand me something whole. Sometimes, when this strange urge to choose the damaged threatens to consume me, I wish someone would stop me, take my hand, and place something beautiful in it. Because left to myself, I’ll always pick the broken things. I don’t seem to have it in me to stop.

Guilt would gnaw at me until I submitted to the notion that ugly things need love too — that broken things can still be beautiful.

In trying to understand why I embrace things that hurt me, I’ve narrowed my reasons down to a few. Maybe it’s because I believe I deserve to be cut by the sharp edges of broken glass, that my sins have accumulated into a debt that must be paid in blood as well as water, sipped from the jagged rim of my cup. Or maybe I think others are more deserving of the unblemished mangoes, and all my good deeds still fall short of earning me anything more than the bruised fruit.

Then again, maybe taking the damaged things eases the perfectionist in my mind. The one who feels comforted knowing the flawed have been removed, that only the beautiful remain on the shelf.

Or perhaps I’m simply kind-hearted. Someone unselfish enough to take in what others discard. Maybe I don’t mind suffering if it brings someone else joy. Maybe I truly believe that even the ugly and unwanted deserve love and care as much as the lovely and adored. I don’t think too highly of myself, so I doubt it’s all selflessness — and yet, here I stand among the broken things spent a lifetime collecting, me included. Not discarded, no — but bruised, manhandled, and tender from every fall and every hand rough enough to leave a scar.

So, who’s to say whether I’m right or wrong?

This whole concept of loving broken things makes something clearer to me, though: love is an action. Yes, love may be stirred by affection, attraction, desire, familiarity, even pity — but in itself, love is a decision. So many things can make loving easier: attraction and passion make eros flow more naturally; similarities and companionship make philia gentler; familiarity and loyalty make storge steady. But all of these, I think, must spring from agape — the unconditional, selfless decision to love anyway.

And in this case, a decision to love all things scarred. Or maybe some things.

And so, for whatever reasons you may have to love us — we, the broken — we thank you.

We are the puppy with the broken leg and torn ear in the shelter.
The girl with eyes too big and insecurities piled high.
The boy with the stammer who looks away to hide the struggle in his gaze.
We are every pimpled face, every chipped mug, every dented box of cookies, every bruised and blemished fruit.

We are not aesthetically pleasing, not to the many souls and even less eyes and yet, we are loved.

Maybe that’s how love truly goes: in spite of, not because of.

Thank you for loving me in spite of — and not because of.

Heyyyy, thank you so much for reading this.

I like to write pieces like this because there was once a time when I was scared to share my art online. I thought that people wouldn’t understand or relate to the things I write (who am I kidding? I still get worried.) But a friend once told me that there’s no way I’m the only person on earth who feels or thinks this way — that I’m simply not that special.

And while that might sound insulting, it really wasn’t. I was just too caught up in my head to see the truth of it. As the Bible says, “There is nothing new under the sun.”

So, to everyone who relates, especially to this piece, I pray that you do not remain broken, but that your healing shines through every crack, as you are renewed in Christ Jesus.

Thank you for reading. 💛