Blessed and Broken

In contemplating gratitude I am reminded of a story, actually two stories. Stories that have been the theme of my year…

It's bread He holds in His hands as He lifts eyes to heaven on the crowded hillside surrounded by 20,000 people or in the upper room with His special twelve. This bread, this life, this miracle waiting to happen…

After He blesses, He breaks. Because brokenness without blessing makes men destitute and hearts grow cold.

The blessing always comes before the breaking. 

Yet brokenness is not the end of the story.
Blessed bread is broken and given away. And it's in the giving that it's multiplied. 

Healing comes through brokenness.

The promise grows to meet our need. Whether twelve or twenty thousand.
Miracles happen. Bread is multiplied. Hearts are fed. But only through torn pieces.

--

I’m blessed and broken, as a token, of a love I can’t deny. 

I’m torn in pieces, by my Jesus, the only way to beautify. 

Though the pain be bittersweet, This transformation He will complete.

I’m blessed and broken, for only brokenness can heal.

© Glesni Mason, 2013

The Thankful One

Dust billows and rises under tired feet to meet fading day. On the horizon silhouettes form the welcoming outline of a small town where thirteen weary travelers anticipate spending the night. Gathering fatigue slows the pace of some, quickens others. All is silence besides the gentle crunch of footsteps.

Suddenly a gasp escapes the lips of one in the group as ten shadowy figures approach the travelers.
They are untouchables. They are the lowest of the low. They are lepers.

I can feel the tension, the awkwardness of the moment.

"What audacity!" one disciple whispers to the other.
"The nerve of them! Don't they realize that this is prohibited by law?"

Audacity indeed.
And Someone recognizes it.

Ten men cry for mercy from One who men say is the Mercy-Giver.
Jesus commands them to go. And they go.

Following the running men at a relaxed pace, the group of disciples and their Master continue on.
The gates of the village are not far now. Warmth and nourishment are imminent.

Yet silence is abruptly interrupted again as a man rushes excitedly toward them.
It's one of the lepers with tears flowing freely down glistening cheeks. He has something to say.

"Thank you, Jesus… 
       …thank you, thank you, thank you."

In his delirious euphoria he can say nothing more. But that doesn't matter. 
This Samaritan has grasped what Christ has been vainly trying to teach the Jews for months.

Gratitude is a lifestyle.

One man was thankful and soon his testimony converted hundreds.
Because his thanksgiving was not a one time event, but a way of life.

And I wonder what kind of thanksgiving I have…
Am I living a life of gratitude?

Beautiful Ugly

I love all things beautiful.
And it's a beautiful life I live. Every part of it.

Oh, I may cry. I may wonder.
I may wish things were different.
I may at times wish to see beyond the misty shroud upon my pathway.

Yet my God is also a lover of the beautiful. 
And making my life beautiful is exactly what He is attempting to do. Even through the ugly.
Because sometimes it is the ugly that makes something beautiful. 

Sometimes it's the only thing…

The beautiful-ugly.
If anything falls under the category of miracle, that does.

A miracle of Love poured out upon an ugly planet bathed in ugly scars.
A miracle that transforms ugly hearts.

A miracle that looks past ugly surfaces to discern uncut diamonds, hearts of beauty covered by years of filth.

He calls the ugly beautiful…
        He calls each beating heart beautiful…
                He calls me beautiful…

And He promises to love me forever and always. Not because I'm beautiful, but because I'm ugly. 
It's the ugly that makes the greatest contrast when transformation occurs anyway.

He calls my ugly beautiful.
My love overflows.

Weak Hands, Feeble Knees

It's dark outside. Soft light streams over my shoulders. I love new mornings. My eyes scan the page as I absorb verse after verse.

The guidelines for the race. The provisions for the runner. These things call my attention.

I haven't run a race in a long time. At least an official one.
But I know the exertion, the endurance, the positive morale needed to finish any endeavor.

And I stop to think of races I have participated in or observed. Something disturbs me.
Each runner is only running for himself. 

He has the end goal continually before him. But he has no concern for the other runners.
His only concern is to win.

But we run a race in which all can be winners.
And we have no right to run past those who are weak just because we are stronger.

No right at all.

Instead we are obligated to lift up weary hands and feeble knees. Because we are not in this race for ourselves.
We have a duty to help those that are struggling to run beside us.

It would be a terrible thing to run through those gates of pearl alone.
Lord, give me eyes to see, lips to speak, hands to heal. And them to me today…