Cracked but Not Broken

It was a Monday afternoon.

My son was picking up his two children.

There’s Boo.

You’ve heard me expound on Boo, my granddaughter. She’s the one with the vivid, non-stop imagination. The one, who, if you’ve ever watched the insurance commercial where the guy is sitting at the little kids’ table and one little girl answers his question and just keeps going on and on and on… well – that’s Boo. She is smart, she is sweet, she is sensitive, and she is silly. She loves to sing and dance and sword fight and she is my sidekick.

I’ve watched her each day, ten hours a day, since she was six months old.

She is now 5 1/2.

Then there’s now Little Buddy.
Big, wide, curious blue eyes that soak up every smile, every funny face. Eyes that catch sight of every bird, each butterfly that flutters past, and is amazed at the bumble bees and the poster of Rapunzel and her sidekick, Pascal. My Little Buddy who runs as fast as a 13 month old can (while being told “I’m gonna get’cha”), having only been walking for two months of his young life.

Little Buddy that smiles back as I sing to him while rocking him to sleep, then closes his eyes and begins to snore.

I’ve watched him since he was 3 1/2 months old.

It’s a Monday afternoon, about three weeks ago.

As my son readies to leave with the kids, he pauses to tell us he has been putting feelers out for a new job (he has eluded to this several times in the last two years now and then). He’s never really felt settled at Harry’s (where I take many of my rose pictures). He’s never felt in his element and doing what he enjoys or using his degree. He has been in the marketing division of Harry’s company and his strenghts lie in analytics and crunching numbers.

So, he put out feelers for a better job.


Tuesday afternoon.

One day later.

My son has an over-the-phone interview with someone at a company based in a small town in northern Idaho, just south of the Canadian border, approximately 1 1/2 hours.

Could be nothing, he says.

Could be something, I think.
Wednesday afternoon.

He’s got the job and the next day he gives his notice. The same day he receives a letter from his current company stating that Harry’s is being sold, restructured, and my son’s current job is one of hundreds with a good possibility of disappearing.

Coincidence? I believe in a Higher Power than that which is called coincidence. I also believe I am going to be sick.
Thursday afternoon.

My son talks of putting their house up for sale and when I go over to the house to drop something off, the realtor is already there and is making his introductions to his new clients – my son and his family.

I leave and as I turn the corner and head towards home, the tears come. This is too real.
Friday afternoon.

They have two offers and accept one of them the following Monday afternoon.

By that following Sunday, my son is driving to Idaho to start his new job the next day.

It is now another Friday afternoon and I take Boo to the mall. We are having a special afternoon together, just Grammy and Boo. We are going to ride the kids’ train – finally. She has waited a long while for this adventure and today we are going to do it.

The train is no more.

The woman at the toy store merely states that one day it was just ‘gone’. Boo handles it extremely well.

We slip into a photo booth and do the next thing on our list. Have our picture taken together. She loves the idea of instant photos and funny faces, so we do another booth.

And then she spots it.


Every little girl’s dream store. Jewelry. Hair accessories. Hello Kitty doodads.

She is in heaven. She picks out glitter hair and a set of new hair clips.

“Mommy will freak out,” she says regarding the glitter hair. “I’ve never seen Mommy freak out so this will be funny,” she adds.

As we walk to the counter, she eyes a display of necklaces. “They’re all cracked,” she says as she looks at them.

A display of necklaces, sold in pairs, of broken hearts. Each pair has a broken heart and a coral colored flower hanging from each chain.

She asks why they are all ‘cracked’.

I explain that the hearts are broken in two because when two people who really care for and love each other aren’t together, their hearts can feel broken. So, they each have a piece of this heart that represents their hearts and when they get back together and see each other again, they put their two pieces together and the heart is fixed. (I don’t know – I’m wingin’ it here. I’ve never had a broken heart made of gold.)

“Oh Grammy,” she exclaims. “Let’s get these! Then you can have one and I can have one and when we’re not together our hearts will be cracked and when we are together again, our hearts will be fixed.”

Our hearts will be fixed
I was struck by her insistance that the heart made of metal wasn’t broken, but cracked. In some strange way, I was actually comforted by that remark. Instead of being broken, our hearts will be cracked. I’m grateful for that, for I don’t think I could handle a broken heart, lying in pieces and my emotions raw on the floor.

A cracked heart seems different somehow.

It is hurting, painful, and crying out for mercy, but it is being held together enough to know God is going to work in and through it until it is whole once more.

So we bought that set of cracked-heart necklaces. And when my son returns to take his family in a week and a half, my heart will feel like it is being ripped in two, I know God will be holding it together so that it will only be cracked

…and not broken.
20130604-210231.jpgFrom my heart ~sherri

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