Sometimes I feel so fragile Father, as if I am one of those pieces of glassware mother never allowed us to play with or get near or touch. Fragile, so easy to slip, to fall, to break. Fragile from the hand to the floor where I break into a thousand pieces.
Sometimes I feel so broken Father, as if the slip and the fall are all that are in my past, all that define me, all that I have to claim as who I am. Broken. Shattered. Smashed against the hardness of the surfaces that I can no longer bounce from. Far from the hands from which I slipped and fell. Far from the soft and gentle touch that created, shaped, and held. Broken. Pieces.
Sometimes I feel so disjointed, so fragmented, so divided; like so many pieces. Like the stories I heard as a child, of the egg that fell off the wall. And sometimes it seems Father, that there is no way to even think about getting back on the wall, because there are so many pieces to gather, to repair, to mend with no hands, no glue, no way to put me all back together again.
Fragile, Broken, Pieces.
But then you Father, are the Potter. Help me trust in your hands. To bring together fragile, broken pieces to hold in Your hands, never to be so fragile and broken and pieced up again.