Pieces was written in the fall of 2018 when I was in a very different place than I am now. I decided to post it here for adoptive moms who may feel the same or for those who would like a window into the less talked about aspects of adoption and loss.
She finds a Work of Art. It is in pieces, shattered. Some see it as damaged and worthless but she sees the beauty, the potential. She carefully gathers the pieces with all good intentions of finding the perfect way to make the Work of Art whole again.
She makes a plan. This is what I’ll do. I will find just the right glue. I will hold each piece carefully in place while the glue sets. Then I will fill the cracks. And when the cracks are filled and cured, I will repaint it. I will repaint all the faded colors; the colors I can see were once there. And when I do this, the pieces will come together and it will be sturdy and whole and beautiful, just as it was always meant to be.
The journey home is long. She is impatient because she wants to get busy crafting. She finally arrives and begins. The broken pieces are unexpectedly awkward to hold. She picks them up and they fall between her fingers. She picks them up again and down they go. This happens over and over and over. Finally, she learns how to hold them just the right way, and she begins to use the special glue.
The process is tedious, clumsy. She tries again. This time it will work. This time, this glue, this configuration, this will work. But it doesn’t. The pieces keep falling to the ground. She is tired and frustrated but she picks them up one more time. It works. The glue is holding. Let it set. Let it set. Don’t disturb it. It is fragile. Time passes, more time than she expected, and at last it sets. It is sturdy.
She goes through the meticulous business of filling the cracks. Let it set. It takes a very long time for the cracks to cure. Let it set. Finally the cracks cure and the Work of Art is whole.
She cocks her head and sighs. It’s whole but looks tired and faded. The paint will fix that. She uses the colors, the ones she noticed it had been painted before, and she adds a few new colors she thinks will look nice as well. Let it Set. The paint must dry. The paint takes a very long time to dry but when it does it is beautiful.
All of this has taken much, much longer than she ever imagined it would, but it was worth it. Yes, she can see some of the cracks and even a few pinholes where tiny pieces were lost in the process. But it is sturdy and whole and beautiful. She steps away for a time, happy, peaceful, and confident that it is repaired and will only become more beautiful over the years.
Darkness comes and with the darkness comes a crash! She hurries in to see that it has fallen, and, if possible, there are more pieces than before, thousands of them.
She quickly drops to the ground. There is no time to put on protective gloves, she must pick up the pieces before they get stepped on or lost. The pieces are sharp and cut her skin straight to the bone. Her fingers sting and bleed, but still she picks up the pieces. She has to pick up the pieces! She cannot afford to lose any more pieces! For if they are lost then so is she. The Work of Art has become a part of her and she cannot live without it. She cannot go on if it is not there and whole.
She has gathered all the fragments. The cracks are broader and the paint is chipped. The pieces begin to move around in her hands, piercing her skin as if angry, as if blaming her for the fall and crying out, “You are the source of all my ugliness! You are the reason I cannot stay together! You have tried to make me the way you want me to look! I was happy in pieces. I was better off before you came along!”
Shocked and hurt, she stands and questions, “Me? Not the one who turned away and left you in fragments, but me? My only intention was to care for you, to tend to you, to love you. I have only ever wanted what’s best for you. Why are you so angry with me?”
The pieces stare back, quiet and steady. “Because you are here.”
Then the pieces, the thousands of jagged, sharp pieces fall through her raw fingers and hit the unyielding ground once again. She is exhausted, defeated. She doesn’t think she can go all the way down to the ground yet another time to pick up all those pieces. It is futile. It is useless. It is never going to end. It is never going to work. It is never, ever going to end.
Her eyes follow a tear falling to the ground and she notices another small pile of fragments right next to the Work of Art. She pauses. She recognizes it. She knows it. She remembers that she has brushed this pile aside dozens of times. It is her heart.
She kneels next to the small pile of debris and picks up one shard. This piece is the first time she ever saw the abandoned Work of Art. She holds it tight and quietly cries. She picks up the next fragment. It is the one who left the Work of Art behind. The next shard is detachment. The next is anger. The next is resentment. The next is distrust, then loss, the next more loss, and the next and the next and the next, all the scraps belong to the Work of Art; all the pieces of her heart are fractured from its pain.
She knows now that she must mend her heart first. She already knows she cannot do it alone. She turns to the One who made her. He gently takes the pieces from her. He uses the special glue that will make her whole. He fills the cracks, and repaints the surface. And when all is set and cured and dry, He carefully places her heart back where it belongs. It will never be the same. Never. But it is sturdy and whole and beautiful.
With her heart back in its place, she rediscovers strength, courage, and patience. She turns back to the fractured Work of Art and begins again.
