Am I Broken?

Being the youngest of four children by 15 years meant that my sister and brothers had a whole different set of childhood experiences than I did. In fact, in many ways, I grew up sort of like an only child because of the vast difference in our ages. For as far back as I can remember, I've heard stories about the adventures they shared when they were kids. And truthfully? Truthfully, I was more than a little jealous of the fact that the three of them got to pal around and grow up together. It's funny, though ... even though I wasn't a part of their childhood shenanigans, I can recite most of their favorite stories as if I were right in the middle of the action. There's one story in particular, however, that popped into my mind earlier this evening when I was walking with Ollie ... a story from so many years ago that now resonates with meaning and truth I never understood before.

Once they were old enough, Jerry, Tommy and Sis would ride the train to Granny and Grandad's home in Kentucky and stay a couple of weeks with them in the summer. I've written previously about my grandparents' house ... think of the old Civil War homes in the South with the sweeping views, majestic fruit trees in the yard, fields of tobacco and corn, and large front porches with enormous white columns. Granny was particular about her house ... she liked everything to be neat, clean and orderly, and she was especially fussy about certain knickknacks. So when Jerry accidentally broke Granny's small blue vase when he and Tommy were roughhousing, he did what any young boy would do ... he raced upstairs, found some glue, crawled under one of the old iron beds and tried to put the vase back together so that he could place it back on the table where it belonged. Jerry didn't tell Granny he broke her vase, and she didn't say anything to him, though it was very obvious the vase had been repaired by the hands of a little boy. Guilt eventually got the best of Jerry, though, and he fessed up to breaking the vase ... not only did he tell Granny the truth, he took his own money and bought her a new vase. I never quite understood why he bought her a vase in the shape of a violin, though ... it looked nothing like the one he broke, and it was just plain old ugly. I know what both vases looked like because Granny kept them, both the broken one and the new one ... Granny kept them, and after she passed away, my mom kept them, too.

I left work a little early today to go to the doctor, and I finished in time to have a couple of hours between my appointment and a meeting I had to attend later so I quickly put Ollie's harness on him, grabbed my coat and headed out for a walk. Ollie and I have a route we walk when it's dark out, but sometimes when I'm deep in thought I don't always pay attention to where I'm walking. Such was the case this evening when I mindlessly turned down a winding path behind a series of large buildings, and by the time I realized where we were, it was really, really, really dark. I always get a little creeped out when I walk on that particular path, even in the light of day ... I can assure you that it's much, much, much creepier in the dark. By the time Ollie and I finally reached the well-lit sidewalk ... well, suffice it to say that I was covered in goosebumps and trembling from the fear that had wrapped itself around me. I'm not sure if it was because I was scared or if it was because I'm just clumsy sometimes, but as Ollie and I came to the end of one sidewalk and I turned to step on the next one, I lost my footing and crashed. And of course I did what you're never supposed to do when you take a tumble, I instinctively stretched my arms out in front of me to try and catch myself.

Here's some advice for future reference should you find yourself falling down on a sidewalk in the dark ... concrete doesn't give, and it hurts like crazy when you crash into it. I'm not sure just how many minutes passed before I finally sat up, but when I did, I said out loud to Ollie, "Am I broken, wiener dog? I must be broken somewhere after a hard fall like that. Am I? Am I broken, buddy?" And as soon as the words left my lips, I thought about my brother Jerry and the story of him breaking Granny's vase ... I thought about how he tried desperately to fix what he had broken ... I thought about how he tried to replace the broken vessel with a new one. Once I was assured that neither my arms nor my legs were broken and I was able to get Ollie to stop licking my face, I stood up, slowly made my way home and went to the meeting I was scheduled to attend. I had a hard time focusing on what was said ... all I could think about was Granny's broken vase. See, here's the thing ... Granny and Mom kept that broken vase for decades, not because it was beautiful to someone who didn't know its story but because it was beautiful to those who did.

I can't help but wonder what Granny's broken vase would say if it could speak ... would it say it's broken? Ugly? Worthless? Or would it say, "Look closer ... past the cracks and the glue ... I'm not so bad if you really, really, really look at me. Look past the cracks and the glue, and look at me. When you do, you will see that I'm not broken ... not really ... not where it counts. If you really look at me, you'll see love."

Am I broken? Are you?