Broken is Beautiful

Jesus turned toward the woman and said to Simon, “Have you noticed this woman? When I came into your home, you didn’t give me any water so I could wash my feet. But she has washed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. You didn’t greet me with a kiss, but from the time I came in, she has not stopped kissing my feet. You didn’t even pour olive oil on my head, but she has poured expensive perfume on my feet. So I tell you that all her sins are forgiven, and that is why she has shown great love. But anyone who has been forgiven for only a little will show only a little love.”
Then Jesus said to the woman, “Your sins are forgiven.”
Some other guests started saying to one another, “Who is this who dares to forgive sins?”

But Jesus told the woman, “Because of your faith, you are now saved. May God give you peace!”

 ~Luke 7:44-50

"Morning Has Broken" by Lee Ann Petropoulos. Broken glass, mosaic art.

It’s raining tonight. Clouds have gathered all day and now they break open, a sign that winter in Bolivia is coming to a close. Spring is on its way, and with it the greenness and warmth that remind me of the beginning, the first time I arrived in La Paz. The rain presses down on the dust-covered streets, and streams of mud flow over the cobblestones. Mud and green grass. Dirt and new life. Filthy and clean. Amazing to think that rain brings both, and there cannot be one without the other.

I remember the mud today. Tracks of sneaker tread skulking through the door of my classroom, across tile floors, and onto carpets. Nineteen pairs of shoes. Splattered knees, smears across cheeks. The sound of soccer balls at recess wallowing through puddles and plopping on the other side. It lingers around ankles and across palms. The aroma of beaten-up earth swirls through the air and I’m left wondering what I must look like and smell like after a day like today.

These are the days, after the last eight-year-old scrambles his way out of the door, that I let my body collapse on the mud-stricken carpet and close my eyes. My limbs stretch out. The muscles in my legs tense and loosen as I kick off those two-inch heels, the ones that gave me just enough height over the tallest third grader. My fingers find the unraveling braid that I so carefully tightened and pinned this morning. Traces of whiteboard marker cover my hands and pant legs. I don’t even want to know what my face looks like. I haven’t looked in a mirror since 6:30 this morning. In fact, I haven’t gone to the bathroom since then either. There hasn’t been time.

No time in between the sound of feet stomping, hands clapping, keys twisting, doors squeaking, pencils scratching, chairs dragging, voices chatting, laughing, gabbing.

My eyes shudder open and I stare at the panels of my ceiling – rows and columns of white, organized squares. They march across the room, high above the clutter and chaos and muck below. They make the edges of this room look extreme from top to bottom. “Look at us!” they taunt, and I think, Well, at least that’s clean.

And then my gut wrenches. Is that what I really want?

I imagine the faces of my students inside those ceiling panels. Clean, ironed uniforms and combed hair. Straight lines, raised hands, hushed voices. Students who follow directions the first time. Students who keep their hands to themselves. Students who make my job effortless.

I twist my head, eye-level to the floor and the image fades almost immediately. A laugh escapes my mouth, and then another unexpectedly.

Remnants of today litter the carpet threads around me...

-Crumbs of the homemade puppy chow we ate for our first Writing Celebration. Little mouths nibbling on this strange American invention as we listened to each other read aloud our thoughts on fancy publishing paper. Legs swung nervously as we sat on the teacher’s wooden stool, feeling those eyes boring into us with each line. Then came the relief at the sound of applause and the click of the teacher’s camera.

-Colored rubber bands. The ones that fell out of our pockets while we were stitching together another rubber bracelet for our teacher. She’s still wearing the one we gave her yesterday, the patterned purple and white one. It stretches across her skin, resting next to her wristwatch so that she looks at it all day. No, it doesn’t match anything she’s wearing, but then again we didn’t really notice that either.

-And then the mud. Oh, the glorious mud that splashed over our shoes and dug under our fingernails as we relished the freedom of being eight-years-old. No one to impress. Nothing to prove. Nowhere to be and no one to be except ourselves. Because somehow that’s enough for now.

And now I see that this is where life happens. Those white ceiling panels hold nothing. Life is in the mud. When I accept the messy, broken pieces of today, I am able to find joy and purpose. Because really, broken is beautiful.

The Gospel-writer Luke tells us that the very feet of Jesus, caked with mud, were washed by the tears of a woman filthy in her sin. A woman who refused to save another drop of perfume from her broken past. She poured it all out on the feet of Jesus, symbolizing the emptiness of her old life and the promise of fulfillment in the new.

This stained and beaten-up carpet and all its remnants stand as evidence of a life poured out today …my life poured out. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Because it’s in the brokenness that Jesus fills us with His grace and makes us whole again. He breaks up the earth, invites the mud, and brings pure, flawless joy out of the impossible.

So here comes the rain. I’m ready to receive the blessing.

......

 



HIS Third Grade Photo Updates! Here are some shots from our Writing Celebration Day. We created Fierce Wondering narratives by answering crazy "What if..." questions. They were so proud of their hard work and are itching to get the next writing project underway! Love it when kids are excited about writing :)

 

 

 

 

So... that was a lot of pictures, but it was too hard to choose! (Aren't they adorable?) 

 

This year I am dedicating my prayer time to each one of my students for an entire week (that's 19 weeks)! Prayer is the most powerful way we can impact these young lives, and when we join together in prayer, God can work miracles. I am seeking 19 additional families or individuals who would be willing to pray for one of these students BY NAME throughout the school year. If you are interested in lifting up one of these Bolivian sweethearts, shoot me an email at Holland.shipman@gmail.com. Just make the Subject: Student Prayer, and I'll send a name your way! You can also message me via Facebook :)