When I was in my mid-twenties, I was a missionary in Czech Republic. This Bohemian Central European country was the place my whole young life was building towards, and the place that my life has been built from since. The spiritual darkness was almost suffocating, like a weight on your chest as soon as the plane landed in Prague. And yet the cultural beauty was everyday startling; The people some of the most resilient I'd ever seen.
One of the things I loved the most was their art. Folksy and beautiful, Czech art was interesting, but fragile. Even their pottery broke easily. I remember when my family came to visit, my mom bought at least a dozen glass blown eggs to hang on an iron tree stand for Easter.
Each egg's glass was paper thin. Blown to airy lightness. And it was glass, so its fragility was almost scary. How in the world could you hold them without breaking one?
Last night, I had the privilege of leading a support group for woman struggling with all kinds of trials. Ugly divorces, childhood trauma, married to addicts, overcoming addiction themselves...
And as we sat curled up in blankets (more for comfort than the cold) these ladies shared their stories. With each one, I imagined cupping my hands into a bowl, and marveling that they entrusted this group enough to place their fragile story inside.
And I thought: how can I hold each story without breaking them?
Each story precious. Beautiful. Each one so fragile. Sacred. Blown by life to airy lightness. You could see through them. Some had cracks already.
Each story a glass ball held in our hands.
And yet, somehow, in the vulnerability, in the sharing of these stories, they got stronger. Not so fragile, not so scary. It's like in the sharing, in the passing a glass ball from one hand to the next, the fear of dropping them lessened.
Each woman knew the precious, fragile gift she was giving.
And we each knew what we held in our hands.
Everyone knew this was a safe place to give and receive.
"Do you have any other place where you can be open and share your real struggles?"
"No... not really."
I smile. "Thanks for sharing. It took a lot of courage to come here tonight. This is a safe place."
And in the sharing, each glass ball started looking a lot the same. Women saw that though one story had different colors when the light shines through it, they were all equally precious.
"I used to not want to come here. Didn't think it was for me. Now I love it. It's like oxygen."
"You sharing your story helps me see my story and the harm I've done...."
I read a book recently that talked about how Jesus can use the gift of "audacious empathy" to move mountains. How just the act of creating a safe place for hard things to be shared in love brings such healing.
There was nothing special or flashy about this group. And yet, Jesus came in the middle of the circle, and through authentic community and shared vulnerability, He told each woman that her story mattered.
And that He, through us, was not going to drop what was so hard to share. We were not going to let go of these glass balls - beautiful and fragile - without saying, "I see it. And I see you."
Isn't that all any of us ever need?
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