What is it to be broken?
It is reaching the end of yourself — standing at the edge of a cliff — knowing you can either step forward into oblivion or turn back the way you came. It is surveying the wreckage and realizing you were both the driver and the crash.
A dumpster fire of a life.
Damage that feels irreparable.
A rebuild that seems impossible.
But hopeless is not a language God speaks.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18
How do you pick up a shattered spirit?
One piece at a time.
Like broken glass scattered across the floor, you begin with the large shards. The biggest one is your relationship with God. Prayer. Meditation. Surrender to the One who formed you before you ever formed an excuse.
Then come the smaller fragments — family. The ones wounded in the fallout. The apologies that tremble. The humility that stings before it heals.
And finally, the dust — the overlooked splinters. The friendships burned. The trust eroded. Ignore those, and they will cut you later when you least expect it. Even the smallest shards left unswept can wound bare feet.
God didn’t break me. That was all me.
He stood beside the self-inflicted blows. Watched the drinking. The drugging. The reckless lane changes of a soul speeding nowhere. I imagine Him saying — not condemning, but knowing —“That’ll leave a mark.” or “Johnny boy… that false self isn’t you.”
Like driving too fast in heavy traffic, swerving through life, testing fate, cutting people off — convinced you’re in control while losing it completely.
And then you look back.
Pieces of yourself everywhere.
Tears soaking the debris.
And somehow… impossibly…
a fragment of faith pushes through.
Subtle at first. Almost fragile.
Like Kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer mixed with gold. The cracks are not hidden — they are illuminated.
This tradition flows from something called wabi-sabi — the understanding that there is beauty in what is imperfect, weathered, and incomplete. The crack is not a defect. It is evidence of survival. The wear is not weakness; it is history. What looks damaged is actually becoming.
It also reflects mono no aware — a gentle awareness that all things are temporary. Blossoms bloom and fall. Seasons change without asking permission. Even suffering does not stay. The pain that once felt permanent was only a season. And seasons move.
Addiction felt endless.
Shame felt permanent.
Loss felt consuming.
But seasons turn. God did not discard the shattered vessel. He rebuilt it.
He filled the fractures with gold — His grace binding what I could not repair. My soul became the mortar. Now the cracks do not shame me; they shine.
You see the imperfections.
But you also see the redemption.
And the story is stronger because it broke.
“For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ made His light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ… We have this treasure in jars of clay.” — 2 Corinthians 4:6–7
Closing Prayer
Father,
Thank You for not discarding me when I shattered.
Thank You for standing beside me in the wreckage and patiently rebuilding what I could not repair.
Fill the remaining cracks with Your light.
Let my scars shine with Your grace.
And remind me daily that what was broken is not wasted in Your hands.
Amen.
