My knees hurt as I kneel on the floor picking crayons, markers, and other craft supplies out of the garbage. Above me, sitting on his bed, is my son who is sobbing great, big, heart-wrenching sobs. Picking up and repairing the broken objects is nothing new, but the emotion that accompanies the destruction this time is different, and almost more painful to witness. The deep, deep hurt is still there, but it is moving from blinding anger to gut turning grief. Other than silently be with him, and help restore his possessions and his room, there is nothing I can do. Nothing that is, except pray that God touches the broken places within him and fills my boy with healing, peace, and joy.
And I realize that my kneeling by the trash can is a vivid picture of what raising this child is like. My knees ache from falling on them in prayer, despair so often. And when the break downs happen, I carefully pick-up the pieces, hoping to retrieve the whole pieces and leave the broken things. Someday I hope and pray there will be no more brokenness left.