Jagged, broken. More than my hands can hold. Enough pieces to know that some are missing. That’s how my heart felt and still feels—when I can feel something at all. I want to cling to each wonderful memory of my mother, but my white-knuckled grip cuts gashes into fading recollections. My mom and I spoke on the phone daily for over 30 years. I don’t want to turn off her phone number. I know she won’t answer it again.
Before she died, I was aware of the stages of grief model. I knew that if this model of understanding grief fits for me, I would bounce back and forth through those stages. It’s not a straight line from denial, anger, bargaining, depression, on to acceptance.
Then a year ago, I experienced the death of my mom. I was introduced to something called complex grief. Trust me, it’s not an acquaintance you want to make.
Being transparent and vulnerable, I’ll share with you that God isn’t able to mend my heart right now. I say “right now” with the hope of God being near to the brokenhearted. Or, maybe I say “right now” because that’s what you’d expect a good Christian to say. I’m not implying that I’m a good Christian, only that I think I know what one should sound like.
I’ve been pondering a lot about brokenness. Something that sticks with me is a line from the book of Job 2:8. “After Job had an outbreak of painful sores from his head to his feet, he took a piece of broken pottery and scraped himself with it as he sat among the ashes.”
That piece of pottery that Job had, what was it a part of originally? Was it once a water jar used to quench the thirst of visitors? Maybe it was a set that Job’s wife was keeping to pass on to one of their daughters as a wedding present? Maybe Job used it himself as a part of his prophylactic sin offerings on behalf of his children? Whatever it was, it wouldn’t ever be the same again. Something happened. It had changed. It won’t be the same again. You can see it. You can feel it.
Grief demands to be seen and felt.
Holding onto pieces of brokenness may bring some comfort. It seems so to me. The broken pottery in Job’s hands symbolizes the shattered pieces of his life — the loss of his family, his health, and his livelihood. In this moment, Job’s suffering is both physical and emotional, and the pottery serves as a tangible reminder of his anguish.
Holding a piece of pottery can evoke a similar awareness. Pottery, once whole and beautiful, now broken, mirrors the fragility of life. Each jagged edge can represent a painful experience, a fractured relationship, or an unanswered prayer. Yet, even in its brokenness, the pottery remains in Job’s hands. He does not throw it away but holds it, acknowledging the reality of his pain.
Broken pottery can be reshaped, and so can our hearts. As you hold your broken pieces and I hold mine, we are invited to bring them before God, trusting that even in our pain, we too are held and seen.
Hedren Johnson is a seasoned IT professional with a passion for learning something about everything. He enjoys being with his partner, Matthew, and their two loyal German Shepherds, Smith and Wesson.