Broken Eggs

We are all broken eggs.Easter wrecks me.

There is something so profoundly undoing about it all.

The love. The cost. The hope.

So deeply constant but also newly demolished and reconstructed inside my heart.

Because every year, there is a new suffering, a new loss that changes how I see a Savior who would take every tear, every undoing, every consequence, every hurt and make it His for the whole of humanity.

I simply cannot even.

But this year I found something different.

Something unencumbered. Something simpler. Something a bit more tangible

It was placed in-between Palm Sunday and dyeing Easter eggs and a trip to Walmart.

Where I had been left to wonder when in the hoot we had decided to do more than throw a box of PEEPS at the kids and call it good or why the perfect Easter pictures and the perfect Easter brunch and the perfect, magical Easter baskets had become so utterly maddening.

But then it hit me.

After we dyed the first little hard-boiled egg in psychedelic colors and two of them cracked and three kids wholeheartedly agreed with the statement of one, “I’m not going to eat these because they smell like farts.”

We are broken eggs.

He came. He died. He rose.

Because we are broken eggs.

We live in the in-between, waiting for our hope to be realized. We live in smelly and often rancid imperfection. We live in a place where death still stings and tears still fall.

We are not Home.

Even though our chiffon and lace and lovely celebrations tell us otherwise. Even though Facebook will prompt us to post our perfect pictures and our coordinated outfits. Even though we will lose our stuff over chocolate dripping on the ever-lovely white sundress five minutes before leaving for church.

Even. Though.

We think the only thing that will make this look better…

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Is this…

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The truth is that we are all just a bunch of broken eggs.

Standing in our Saturday, holding onto the hope of eternity, praising Him through our tears.

Cracked, smelly and falling apart.

Waiting in all our imperfection for the promise fulfilled on the day love won, the promise He whispers even now…

“Hold on, love. You’re almost Home.”

2 thoughts on “Broken Eggs

  1. Susan Powell says:

    *Yes! That one word; “Almost”….packed tight with Hope…Healing…and undeniable pain for those who will have to wait for their own personal ‘promise’ of ‘almost’. “Thank you”,Sara,for sharing your heart-truth,and your hard too…Keeping you in prayers…knowing you’r in His…*’as He ever lives to make intercession for His Bride’….with Love and Hope,Sue*

    • Sara says:

      When I think about this life being but a breath compared to eternity, it changes everything. My hard things suddenly become lighter because the hope of what is to come kicks the snot out of what is. Thank you for always reminding me (and countless others) that eternal hope is not in the things this world has to offer but rather, it is in the One who loved us enough to choose the Cross. Love you, sweet sister!!!

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