Brokenness. It’s a word I have carried in my chest for several years now. It’s a word I see when I look in the mirror and at the world around me. Sometimes it is all I can see. I close my eyes and imagine shattered pottery, the jagged edges slicing the tender chambers of my At least when we see our own sin, we can stare into the mirror with some level of acceptance knowing we made the mess ourselves. How can we move forward when we are crippled by the stabbing of another? We collect the pieces of our broken hearts and bodies like discarded seashells dug from the sand, unable to imagine what their original shape must have been based on their current state.