Writing bare for five minutes on one word.
Hosted by the gypsy mama
Today word, this Good Friday, is broken.
When I think of Good Friday, I think of Peter.
Of all the 12, I am most like Peter.
So puffed up and sure in myself. Thinking that I’ve got it all under control.
And then a rooster crows and these eyes are on me.
Eyes that see right through me and into those places of truth.
The broken places that I’ve taped back together.
And then He is broken. And I see him and wonder what was it all for?
All this time following and believing.
And as He is broken there for me
and as I sit an question and feel abandoned
I do know, just as He healed the ear of the man that was ripped off in an act of supposed gallantry,
when those eyes see me and see those broken places, there is healing.
The brokenness is not forever.