Broken beauty

Seventeen years is a long time.

Seventeen years ago there was no Beau. There was no Sydney. There was no Caroline.

Seventeen years ago, there was a Brad out there somewhere, but we didn’t know the other existed and he was married to someone else.

Seventeen years ago was two last names ago for me. I was still a Hightower. I was still in college. Life had not quite begun.

Seventeen years probably doesn’t seem that long to some people, but it’s almost half my life. And as much ground as I’ve covered in the past ten years, 17 years feels like two lifetimes.

And 17 years is a long time for something to be broken.

[Before I begin, I want to acknowledge the painful level of cliché in this metaphor. As a writer, I try to avoid cliché at all costs. But as a Christian, I can’t not see and I can’t not share the ‘lesson’ of this story. So to my professors and fellow writers, just humor me. The sentimental value of this story outweighs my journalistic pride.]

In December of 1999, I left for Europe two days after Christmas. Samford has several study-abroad opportunities and one was a ‘Jan Term’ (January term, mini-mester) in London.

After two weeks of classes in London, we were set free to travel for the second two weeks of Jan Term. I flew to Rome with a few friends and we began our adventure.

The plan was as follows: Rome, Florence, Venice, Salzburg (Austria), Lucerne (Switzerland), Paris then back to London to fly home with the rest of the students and professors.

The Eurail train made this very easy. We lived out of our backpacks and had an amazing time.

And I’ll say this: I could have stayed in Italy for the entire month. The people were loud and happy, the food was amazing and you couldn’t turn around without beholding something beautiful.

The story of the vase begins in Venice, specifically Murano, which is a small island just off the mainland. Murano is known for its glass. The whole island is covered in shops of glassblowers and their wares. It was captivating.

(Burano is a neighboring island known for its lace, where I snagged a couple of handmade handkerchiefs that I’ll give to my girls someday….even though they will have NO idea what they are.)

We walked from store to store in Murano, marveling at the shapes and colors of the beautiful glass art that surrounded us.

Finally in one shop, my eyes fell on a stunning blue vase.

I always loved blue and the way the light hit this royal cobalt hue took my breath away. I bought it for my mom (with full expectation that someday she would pass it back to me).

The owner wrapped it carefully in bubble wrap and I carried my backpack much more carefully throughout the remainder of our travels. This stunning vase miraculously made it all the way back to the states in one piece.

And then, the first time my mom filled it with fresh flowers for a gathering at her house, a friend bumped the table it was sitting on, knocked the precious vase to the floor where it broke into pieces.

My mom was devastated and tried to no avail to glue it back together. She finally gave up, but kept all the pieces safely in a box.

For 17 years.

Then just this past Christmas, one degree, several jobs, four cities, two marriages and three kids later, I remembered the vase. It’s incredibly difficult to shop for my mom. She doesn’t really want anything and since I can’t go extravagant, I usually try to go sentimental.

I told her that for a combo Christmas and birthday (in February) gift, I wanted to get the vase repaired. She brought me the beautiful pieces and I got to work.

Thankfully in those 17 years, the internet and Google have come about, which made the whole process much easier than it would have been back when the vase was first broken.

I contacted several glass places in Orlando, explained the situation, sent pictures and was turned down by everyone. Apparently there’s something extremely rare and unique about Murano glass. One woman went so far as to say her shop couldn’t fix it, and that there wasn’t ANYone out there who could.

Well, for those of you who know me, as you would imagine, that made me all the more driven to make this miracle happen.

I decided to go back to the source and began Googling Murano glass repairs. It was starting to look like Italy would be my only hope.

Then on one website, there was a line that mentioned those needing repairs in the United States should contact this dude, Michael Bokrosh, in Seattle. He had been trained in glasswork IN Murano. So I gave him a call.

In his brusque, non-Southern manner, he attempted to explain the intricacies of Murano glass and how the adhesive he used would have to be made special for my vase, would take a week to prepare and another week to set. Yeesh.

After making a ‘gentlemen’s agreement’ for payment over the phone, I followed his extensive shipping instructions and mailed him the pieces. (The shipping alone probably cost more than the vase itself.)

Several phone calls, emails, exchanged pictures, a hefty check and six weeks later, the vase arrived on my doorstep. I anxiously (but carefully!) worked my way through the excessive shipping materials and held my (I mean, Mom’s) vase, fully intact for the first time in 17 years.

As Michael warned, the cracks were still visible at close inspection and at my request, he filled in a couple of holes with custom matching glass. Somehow I managed to hold the tears in. And later today, I will give the vase back to my mom (and try to convince her to not be afraid to use it).

As I said, the metaphor here is almost too obvious to go into.

Almost.

But I’m gonna do it anyway.

We get broken, you know. Ernest Hemingway said in A Farewell to Arms,

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

Our unique beauty gets broken by the stuff of life. And sometimes, it gets forgotten. Other times, it gets hidden away to protect it from any further damage.

But the world needs all the beauty we have, broken beauty notwithstanding. If you only share your gifts before they are tested, banged up and scarred, you are hiding broken treasure that we all so desperately need to behold.

As a coach, I spend a lot of time digging out hidden broken beauty in people’s lives. Gifts and abilities meant to be displayed for all to see.

Many people assume their gifts are crushed beyond repair and there is no one who can make them useable again.

But for those of us who dare to hope and believe, there is One who can restore our beauty to its original purpose. He will leave the scars and cracks as a testimony and a story to be told. Because no one is inspired by stories of unchallenged perfection. People are inspired by stories of healed brokenness.

What broken beauty are we hiding in our lives?

Getting it back out is not a painless process. Despite Brad’s warning, I cut my finger on the sharp edge of one of the broken pieces as I examined it. And I faced the very real fear of never getting it back. If I kept it, it would remain broken but at least I would still have it. Useless, but still in my possession.

But the only chance of using it again meant letting it go, trusting only in a ‘gentlemen’s agreement’ that I would ever see it again, in ANY form. And the repair itself was not cheap or quick.

And the results are not ‘as good as new,’ which is what we think we want. No, the results are better, cracks remaining. Because now they tell a story. Beauty captures our attention. Stories capture our hearts.

We must dig out our broken beauty. I don’t care how long it’s been. It’s never too late to let God have His way with the gifts He blessed us with when we were created.

Picture the world as it is now. We all walk around doing our days as if we are showing all we have to the world, when we are secretly hiding a broken treasure.

Now imagine us all digging out our damaged gifts, surrendering them to the Giver for healing and then proudly displaying them for everyone to see, cracks and all.

What would THAT world look like?

I don’t know about you, but I’m just dying to find out.