The Broken

Originally written June 2.  Five days before my mom lost her battle with breast cancer.  Thankful for broken, busted up pieces made whole.

The cancer...

It grows, unnoticed, beneath the surface.

For months, maybe years, it's there.  Growing.  Spreading,  Altering the DNA of cells.  Moving boundaries, eventually pressing against vital organs. 

At first it happens unseen.  She isn't aware that things are wrong.  She doesn't realize that death is growing. 

The ignorance doesn't slow the damage.

At some point, I'm not exactly sure when, she notices that things just "aren't right" and she has a choice.  Does she acknowledge the problem or ignore it?  Does she share the secret trouble or try to handle it on her own? 

She waits.  She holds the secret.  She prays.  She reads.  She researches.  She feels the changes.  She knows that something is growing, but she doesn't really call it by its name because maybe she doesn't want to know its name. 

She waits.  She holds the secret.  She sees the changes, but she covers them up.  She keeps it close and covered because it's private.  Or she keeps it close and covered because it's pride.

She's my mom and I'm her child. 

I know this waiting.  I know this holding of secrets.  I know this pride and how death can start growing small like one seed split open.  I know that the waiting produces a crop and once it's all growing wild it gets out of control and overwhelming.

I also know the grace that breaks the pride and turns it into humility.  I know the words to speak when a secret doesn't need to be held close.  I know the sheer joy of grabbing death as it grows as a seedling, when it just pushes through the soil of me, and flinging it into holy fire, that it would be consumed and I would be consumated, completed, made a bit more holy in the offering.

I know what it is to be broken.  And by grace, through faith, I know what it is to be made whole.