Brokenness, Life, and a Tree

O Love, that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in Thee;
I give Thee back the life I owe,
That in Thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

 --George Matheson



There are so many stones in the brook that you cannot count them. Yet in every ten you cannot find more than one or two that are useable. There was no room in David’s pouch for stones which had not been polished smooth. The process of attrition was essential. In the same way those believers who have not yet experienced trials and afflictions, and who have not yet been disciplined by God, are still not ready for his use. What I am anxious to know is whether I myself am qualified to be a ‘smooth stone’ in the hand of my God.

--Wang Ming-Dao (persecuted Chinese pastor)

God uses broken things.

Broken people, broken things.

Soil that's been tilled broken, the clods pounded hard by the hoe.

Olives broken, crushed, for the oil that flows free and nourishing.

Broken bread to feed the hungry--

He uses broken things.

And so many times He breaks a heart before He heals it.

He crushes before He restores--

"For though the Lord causes grief, yet He will show compassion . .  though His hand wounds, it will yet make whole . . . "

Don't be afraid of being broken.

And I wept today because someone I love was broken . . . shattered. Lost every earthly thing of value and every support swept away like a breath punched out of their lungs.

God reaches down to broken things. He puts tears in bottles and remembers the agony of our sorrows.

And we have to be broken before God can use us, whether through our own decisions of surrender  or through the seemingly hard strokes of the Master's rod.

We must be broken . . .

Every ounce of self-reliance stripped away, every shred of pride pressed into the dust.

We must be broken.

George Matheson, Scottish minister and author of the beautiful hymn, "O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go," broken by blindness and the loss of his fiancé.

Corrie Ten Boom, joyful, Spirit-filled author and speaker, broken by the iron grip of the Nazi death camp.

John Bunyan, who took up his pen and wrote the great classic, Pilgrim's Progress, broken by prison and the fear of never seeing his dear, blind daughter Mary again.

Adoniram Judson, Baptist missionary and great worker for the Lord Jesus, broken by his wife's early death, broken by debilitating depression and prison.

The Apostle Paul, broken by affliction, pain, a constant thorn . . .

My Auntie, broken in years past by the cancer that drew her to Jesus . . .

Broken lives, restored; lives that reflect the glory of the Father of the broken.

Severe mercies, that cut away whatever we're leaning on--

Because when every support is taken away, we either fall utterly, or we fall on Jesus.

Walking in the woods with my sister this week along a new trail, we saw a tree.

A lovely, great tree, lying still on the quiet floor of the forest. Its leafy branches sweeping over the path.

A fallen tree, once-great -- now broken.

Quietness all-around, and the tree spread its arching branches over the expanse of the path, making a bridge over the shady pathway

And she said, "How beautiful."

Because this broken thing became a thing of grace and loveliness, a place of shade and a home for birds and animals, a silent witness to the strength and peace of brokenness.

And over the years it will nourish the ground, its wood splintering off, rotting away, giving life from its death.

There is grace through brokenness.

And the Beautiful One, the high and lofty One Whose name is Holy, Who inhabits eternity gave life on a tree fallen, a tree dead, the instrument of torture and crucifixion and suffering and death.

His death on that tree birthed life -- free and rich and new and eternal.

Life out of brokenness, grace out of suffering.

And the Love that was broken on that tree holds us in our brokenness.

Holds us to Himself--

And pours His life into our broken-dying.

O Cross, that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from Thee;
I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be.

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