Βrokenness over guac and margs

Lo and I sit on her front porch and eat chips and guac and drink margs when we wanna talk somethin’. We use that for when both or one of us are hurting, want to ponder outloud (maybe even using words to ponder), and landscape our souls a bit. Together.

We talk about broken dreams. Tests we failed (relational and professional). Men we would always be in love with. Scriptures that we still didn’t understand. Unanswered prayers and the concerning absence of God in raw, bloody places closest to our hearts.

Failure. Disappointment. Fractured places in our beings.

But it always runs in parallel to the dreamsicles of dreamiest, whimsical whispers of fantasties. Like those many answered prayers when God showed up in (still) raw, blood ways, but sometimes it takes the earth to go around the sun for a few laps to see it. When we get our gnarliest roots get violently uprooted and grafted us into new places that only He could’ve grafted us into. And we become grateful.

And then we talk about giving grace to yourself when we fail a test. We talk about celebrating dedication to a cause, a vocation, a church and giving it what you got. Celebrating a desire to love people and creation and share God’s creation. Those things. This test will be passed, I don’t doubt, it will come.

Pressing into these hard things…those are the places of “weird” brokenness where we don’t want to go, but we choose to. We choose to talk about them and share them and wonder about them and make mistakes about them. Knowing that’s all ok.

I’d rather choose the brokenness that than a hands-off, sanitized life and conversations, eh?

 

So over chips and guac and margs and brokenness and we get…redemption. Our Texas roots show…big.

 

And certainly the journey is easier and incredibly more delightful with someone to share it. Community, friendships, relationships. Yes.

 

αμεν

 

 

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