Beauty from the Broken

    It was just this morning I turned to tell her, forcing the stubborn chair to swivel as it was made to, telling her what I thought was simple news. My father would be visiting on Monday; he wanted to see the new home I'd made for myself. He'd be there Monday night.
   She's always been honest, a blessing, for I never had to wonder what she was thinking. I just didn't expect how much it could hurt.
    She was horrified, saying he could come, but make sure he didn't stay long. She'd heard of what he'd done, the reasons my mother had divorced him, his unfaithfulness, his atheism, his desire to verbally abuse my mother. She rethought what she said, saying I needed to make sure she didn't have to meet him. My voice grew quiet and I woodenly said "I understand," several times; I promised the visit would be short and I would text her when we left, so she could come back. In God's mercy she walked out the door in the next minute; I leaned on the desk and tried to breath; I covered my face and cried.

Shield them from his presence;
Shield him from their horror;
how do I shield my heart?

Shield them from a person;
Shield him from the truth;
how do I know what's right?

Shield them from discomfort;
Shield him from disdain;
how do I bear this cost?

I could not be angry at God, not after how well He's taught me that His will is good; I cannot be angry at my housemate, because I know what it is to fear someone outside my circles; I cannot be angry at him, because I love him. God, I love him, I love him, I love him - I trust him as far as I can (not far), and love him as much as I am able.

Cannot they see he is a person too? God saved murderers, liars, Paul - why is my father different? Why can't they see he's made in God's image?

Yet haven't I know that his words can be dangerous, that he's hard to argue with, that he's very persuasive, that he's so convinced he's right?

Broken, broken, broken, I try to let them break a little less, shielding them from each other. I break instead.

Then I read The Hiding Place, skimming through, reading of God using fleas to make heaven touch earth as His children were able to gather in freedom because of the fleas, reading of a lieutenant lost in darkness and hearing the light - unknown if it reached him, reading of their Father's death, how Corrie marked it on her stone calendar as his release date, the day he met his saviour and his wife. I read of Betsie's body transformed after death, how just after she died Corrie described her as carven figure of yellow ivory where every tooth was clearly defined through the skin, every rib showing - and yet God gave her one more glimpse of Betsie's body, and it was young, healthy, her body transformed back into the "Betsie of heaven," glowing with youth and health.

Ashes, cruelty, and death.
Ashes of the people burned in the smokestacks.
Cruelty of the guards who mocked the starving, weak, and miserable prisoneres.
Death of family, friends, death everywhere.

Betsie transformed.
Father released.
Corrie lived
lived
and wrote
and worked
and brought forgiveness, hope, health, life, and the light of the world to millions -
millions through her book, hundreds through her lifetime.

My life transformed.
My father alive
my God living
living
working
in me,
transforming pain to light,
transforming beauty from the broken.