It had already been a long day when I stretched up on tiptoe to shelve a bowl from the dishwasher. Somehow its glass lid slipped down, ricocheted off a stack of other dishes waiting to be shelved, and landed, shattered, on my usually forgiving linoleum tiles.
I didn’t cry, but my disappointment must have been apparent.
As I gingerly gathered the biggest pieces into a box, my tender Two spoke up: “Mommy, it’s okay. God designed the bowls to break like that, so when they break, you don’t have to cry.”
He wanted to comfort me, and the comfort he offered was the sovereignty of God. It’s okay … God designed.
Someone at Pyrex long ago designed the lid for durability, I suppose, but before that, before me, or Pyrex, or linoleum tiles, my gracious God knew exactly how many shards of glass that lid would become on my floor.
God knows every detail of every broken thing that ever was and ever will be: bowls, plans, rules, promises, bodies, souls.
The Bible says that in him all things hold together; so that apart from him, presumably, our very atoms would be fleeing one another; apart from him, nothing would be whole.
And he is good.
I don’t presume to explain his ways and reasons, to say why one bowl and not another, why all the thousand things that make people eager to see the end of this year. But I am infinitely comforted to know that he knows.
He left heaven’s splendor to be born into a poor family under an oppressive government. He wept for our brokenness. He was broken to heal us, and he died that we might live.
It is right sometimes to cry for things broken at the ends of long days and long years, but it is also right to be comforted. Our God is acquainted with every grief. And he has promised to wipe away every tear.
Weary world, rejoice.
©Stacy Crouch 2020