I was talking with a friend recently about things that are broken: in ourselves, in Burma, in the communities around us, in our relationships, in our work.
At one point we talked about children: she is single, wanting to be married and have children; she regularly fears that this won’t happen. I am married, really don’t want to have biological children {at this point; another conversation for another day}, and regularly fear that the systems in place will fail. Another friend is married and wants children, but they can’t have them; she has been through process after process of trying to have children and is fearful that they won’t work.
We talked about the brokenness of this, and how sometimes we just want to cry out: why don’t you fix this, God? Why don’t you fix these broken things, giving babies to those who want babies and not giving them to those who don’t? Why don’t you give food to those who don’t have it, and take it away from those who have too much?
Why don’t you just fix the broken things?
I realize that this opens an entire different conversation about freewill and sovereignty, but that, too, is another conversation for another day. To be honest, I don’t really feel like God answered me with a theological argument. Instead, I feel like he challenged me to choose to look at the things that aren’t broken.
See the mountains? Those are beautiful. They are whole.
See the faces around you–in different shades of brown and different shapes of eyes? Those are beautiful. They were made in my image.
Somedays I think require weeping. Somedays it is good to be reminded that we are groaning for redemption.
But recently, the need for redemption has seemed palpable; the brokenness has seemed prominent. So for today, instead of me asking why he isn’t fixing the broken things, I am choosing to look at the things that are whole.