Cure for Brokenness

 I still remember the shame, frustration, anger, and sadness that overwhelmed my toddler sized heart when I looked at the shattered Santa on the unbalanced sidewalk and felt the sharp pain of skinned hands and knees.

I must have been about four.  I spent the day playing imaginary games of detective with my cousin in an old RV in my grandfather’s driveway.  My dad had stayed behind to keep an eye on us while my mother, aunt, and grandfather spent the afternoon antiquing.  As the car rolled into the driveway, I waved with excitement, and Grandpa got out of the driver seat slowly, staring me down with his signature gleam in his eye.  I knew instantly what that look meant; he had purchased me a present.  With a slow stroll to the trunk, he reached inside a box and handed me a porcelain Santa Claus piggy bank.  He said, “I saw this in a glass case at the antique store, and it had your name on it, Carla.”

Filled with elation, I turned and dashed up the sidewalk to show daddy.  Squeals of glee quickly turned to screams of pain and anger.  After just a few steps, I tripped over the sidewalk, which was slightly raised on one side.  Santa took a ride through the sky alright, and gravity brought him down with a crash.

I was devastated, and I quickly turned to grandpa to hear him calmly shrug, “Well, that didn’t last long.”  I was sobbing because my knees hurt, but also because I didn’t even get to have this precious gift for one minute before it was ruined.  I distinctly remember not getting met with chastisement, which was what I anticipated for breaking a present within seconds.

Instead, Mom scooped me up, sat me on the steps, gray and white with cracked paint.  She looked me in the eye, hugged me, and whispered, “I will take care of this.  It’s okay.”  At age four, I had no idea what that meant, but I trusted Mom.  If she said she would take care of it, she would.  In the following days back in my ranch style childhood home, I watched her meticulously work on this broken Santa.  She had old newspaper copies of the Spencer, IN, Evening World, spread out on the dining room table.  With super glue she rebuilt that porcelain Santa piece by piece.  She would glue one section at a time, let it dry, and add some more the next day.

I am sure this process took hours and hours.  When you’re little you don’t understand the significance of such sacrifices, but she was a working mom, with a full time teaching job, a sixteen acre property to maintain, and a house to run.  She could have done more important things with her time.

But, at age 39 I get this super glued Santa bank out of storage every year, and it’s always the same act—I rub my hands over the cracks, hold it close to my heart, and whisper prayers of gratitude for this display of love.  She passed away just two years later, and I like to imagine her at that table, eyes squinting as she holds glass pieces with tweezers, and glues ever so carefully. I realize what a sacrifice this piecing together was now that I am a busy, working mom.  I understand the depth of grace I was shown, and I am overwhelmed at the lesson she showed me. 

Maybe this Christmas season you’re overwhelmed at the brokenness around you.  Maybe family relationships are not what you hoped and dreamed they would be.  But, I know the cure for brokenness in this shattered world—love, sacrifice, selflessness, and mercy—just like momma showed me.  Maybe you have a circumstance that can only be healed with time and carefully placing broken pieces back in place.  This is the meaning of Christmas after all.  Christ left His perfect home, to dwell among us and bring healing to our broken world and to us.