Beautifully Broken


Under the murky gray sky in the frigid night air, it lingers.   The past is swirling in the wind like the aroma of freshly baked bread invading a kitchen’s air.  The wind gusts against the brittle, decaying rose petals like the tingling sting from a slap.  The past is full.  The din from the store where the rose was purchased still seems audible; the memory of careful preparation as it was set in a vase beside a card still lurks; the laughter as heavenly as the moonlit sky when the rose found its recipient still wafts about; the warm touch of sun from the days spent on the windowsill still lingers.  Words of hope, tears of joy, looks of affection – all the rose’s experiences added more vibrancy to the beauty that flowed out of its delicacy. 
The rose was alive.
Yet, the rich past swirling in the wind is like the tingling sting from a slap as the days that were are no more.  The ground is cold, hard.  The dusk’s darkness is creeping in and surrounding like a thick, wool blanket that separates life from the very ones that need it.  Next to the trash bin from where the wind blew the decaying rose, its forgotten petals droop to the floor like the rose’s tears became too heavy to hold itself up any longer.
The rose is broken.
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The touch of fingers, fingers pulsing with blood coursing through veins, is at once a gush of hopeful relief and bitter nostalgia.  The rose – breakable and devoid of vibrancy – has been selected again and is cradled in the crook of an arm.  Carried at this new vantage point, the rose still feels the wind’s bite, but the wind is no longer all that’s felt; the snug embrace of the sun seeps into the weary petals.  Up large, cement steps, through the paint-peeled door, down the well-lit hallway, into the tarnished doorknobed room marked twenty-three, the rose journeys.  The touch of something cold – the smooth counter-top as white as fresh snow – releases fears of the forgotten and forsaken.  The coat is unbuttoned, the faucet’s fizzling water is unleashed, and the arctic substance sprays up against the vase’s side.  The pulsing fingers are latching on, and the rose finds its stem’s dirt being gingerly washed away as its murky green again appears.  The rose is lost amid the towel’s fleecy folds as the cold is wiped away.  By the balmy, pulsing fingers, the rose is once more placed in a vase and set up high on a windowsill.
The rose has not been made new.  It has not regained its vibrant life.  It is still broken, but the isolation of the discarded no longer haunts.  It’s delicately beautiful; it’s beautifully broken, freed to radiate the beauty from its petals onto others.
All it took was one.
She who saw the rose and picked it up is ordinary.  Her heart aches with pain.  Her blood courses with passion, and her mind ponders life’s questions.  She lives in an ordinary apartment; the white paint from hardware is flaking onto the counter; the faded fabric is visible on the sagging couch; the bathroom faucet’s unremitting drip is a constant rhythm.  Each breath she draws is from a common existence.
Yet, she is wonderfully unique and has made an uncommon choice.  From her own tattered, imperfect, scarred existence, she chose to see beauty in the broken.  In the crumpled, dry petals of a dying rose, she saw a beautiful delicateness and potential.  The forsaken rose has not lost its purpose; its purpose has simply changed.  No longer will its boldly red, soft petals be exchanged in life-giving love, but its deeply dark color will exude a different vibe, a vibe which only the broken can ever hope to give: nothing is ever so crumpled and crushed to be useless; there is beauty in the broken.
Breakable is not discard-able.  Crumpled is not unusable.  Imperfect is not unlovable.
Brokenness has beauty.
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Under the murky gray sky, the rose is ensconced in the windowsill with a new purpose.  From the deep, dark red petals now flow a beauty tattered and reverent.  The laughter in the room is evidence of an atmosphere thick with warmth.  The girl smiles.  Her eyes dance.  The faded couch is holding the weight of friendship. 
                             The breakable rose radiates on, no longer forgotten, no longer discarded.
Oftentimes, what the broken really need is to be seen, to be picked up, and dusted off.  They need to hear the whisper: have courage.  They need to be reminded that they are not disregarded; they are not overlooked.  There is power in the delicately beautiful, power in the beautifully broken.
All it takes is one.

© 2014 Deborah Hope Shining

2 comments

  1. Dove's EyeAugust 1, 2014 at 9:07 AM

    Thank you dear Debra.... you touched my broken heart.... you see like an artist. My favorite part is this: The forsaken rose has not lost its purpose; its purpose has simply changed. No longer will its boldly red, soft petals be exchanged in life-giving love, but its deeply dark color will exude a different vibe, a vibe which only the broken can ever hope to give: nothing is ever so crumpled and crushed to be useless; there is beauty in the broken.
    Breakable is not discard-able. Crumpled is not unusable. Imperfect is not unlovable.
    Brokenness has beauty.

    Thank you dear one. Grammy

    ReplyDelete
  2. Daniel DicksonNovember 10, 2014 at 7:17 PM

    Wow! You really know how to write sister! On top of that it has great meaning! Keep writing and loving the lord! The bless you and keep you!

    ReplyDelete

I definitely don't want this to be a monologue. What are your thoughts? Questions? Ideas?