Broken

by Rich DuBose

Sometimes we know about their brokenness before they're exposed to the blinding reality of our dysfunctions.

There in the maternity ward, with their little wrinkled noses and pink shriveled fingers, we
see them as brand new replicas of us, or of some distant relative—and we wonder what they will become.

But mostly, we view them as perfect, innocent and clean; unwritten pages of potential, waiting to be filled with words and numbers.

Seldom do we view them as broken, especially if they appear to be well. Counting their fingers and toes, we equate normalcy with ten, and expect that they'll thrive like every other child.

But its not that simple. Life never is. And ten doesn't mean what it used to. We know how to fix scraped knees and cut fingers, but what about crippled hearts and sprained thoughts?

What about infected fears and blistered dreams? Why don't pharmacies carry band aids and ointments for these?

When brokenness is out of sight, who notices it before it is too late? And when is it too late?

Over time I have learned that normalcy is over-rated and brokenness is pervasive.

Rich DuBose writes from Northern California | Photo by Helena Lopes, with Pexels.