Brokenness

Sometimes I am reminded why I write about brokenness.
I write because that lady who lost her infant child few months ago? Someone had the gut to tell her that she was glad she was not grieving anymore, because if she were, she was only being selfish. She was only being selfish to her husband, and to her other children.
Grieving for her dead baby is selfish? I could feel my blood boiling just reading that.
One dear friend, her baby passed away in a daycare, not because of SID, but most likely due to negligent. She stood up and made a press conference to call attention to the situation, to make light of how many daycares are unregistered and are not monitored, she stood up in the hope that action will be taken, awareness will be raised, no more children will die again due to negligent, and no more parents' hearts will be broken. She stood up in the midst of her brokenness, she stood up while all she wanted to do was to mourn in private.
Yet some people, called her selfish and crazy for money for sending her precious baby to the daycare. They said it's the price she paid for choosing her job over her child.
Some people.
Sometime I wonder why there is so many ignorant people on the internet. Why people judge so easily without walking one mile in her shoes.
Then I decided to write about brokenness. Again.
Although it goes against my nature. I would rather laugh, I always rather laugh. I would much prefer tell you a joke and make you laugh then tell you this world is broken, and let you leave with a heavy heart. I would much rather be a joker, than one who tells sad broken stories.
To write about brokenness, it spills my insecurities all over. My bleeding heart, my weakness, I would rather just present them to God. Why should I share it? Why should I write about it? Why should I expose myself under the spotlight that no one put me under it except myself?
Then I see, how so many people deal with others' brokenness with ignorant. With judgment, with insensitivity.
Then I see, how many people walking around with brokenness. Outwardly living their daily life, inwardly they cry their quiet tears to sleep, they cry their heart out whether anyone understands or cares.
Too many brokenness and so little hope.
Why do I write about brokenness?
Because I want the brokenhearted to know, someone has walked their path, someone has cried those tears, someone has been broken to pieces, someone understands, someone hears and listens, and someone understands.
Someone cares.
Because I want those who treat brokenness as shame or weakness to know, it is not a shame, and it is not a weakness. It is also not inferiority. And maybe I can teach and model compassion through my words, perhaps? Maybe then there will be one less insensitive or ignorant people who seem to be enjoying or eager to rub salt on other's bleeding wound? Perhaps?
If you want a good joke, come back another day.
Today I am writing about brokenness.
But not without hope or joy. That I promise you. I will always write about brokenness with hope.
Because where my brokenness is, my Jesus is standing on that pile of broken pieces.
He is standing in the midst of it, and He whispers to me, my hope in Him, His love for me, the peace He grant me,  and His grace that overflows.
So let it be that I shall always tell my brokenness with the hope.

We are pretty busy here

At the dinner table, Kayla tried to talk to Shiloh, only to be told by her sister,"Don't talk to me!"
Kayla,"Why? You are not mad! I can talk to you!"
Now, in this house, I told my kids, when they are mad and they don't feel like talking, it is OK. It is allowed.
But that night, it turned out, Shiloh was not mad, and she only refused to talk to her sister to antagonize her.
I did what every mother would do. I gave Shiloh a warning look, or, you can call it an evil eye.
I could tell the girl's brain was churning. She looked guilty but I could tell she was still trying to cook up something to say.
She looked sideway, looked back to me, and said,"Because... I am busy!"
I gently pointed out to her,"You are not even eating your food! What are you busy doing?"
To that, that girl told me and her sister,"I am busy...looking at the ground!"
I turned and looked at her father, and we both burst out laughing simultaneously!
Boy, I wish I got that kind of business!
So, next time you come to my house and see me laying around, don't assume that I'm being lazy.

I might be busy staring at the ceiling.