Hopefully Broken

Recently, I sat with someone in the midst of a difficult trial. She was overwhelmed by sorrow, feeling desolate, keenly aware of the brokenness of life, every sorrow a scar running through the length of it. Tears were her daily bread, every morning a struggle as to how to go on. I could sense her despair as she considered the state of her circumstances. My friend’s struggle was familiar to me. I had often sat in a puddle of weariness, pouring out my suffering through unabated tears. I had questioned every decision, doubted the goodness of God, and wrestled through the idea of his sovereignty.

The truth is, it is a familiar struggle to all of us, for we all live in a world full of sorrow.

The Bible is honest about the brokenness, boldly peeling back the rose colored lenses we all wish we were wearing as it tells the stories of its broken people. One such story is that of Joseph. Thrown into a pit by his brothers, sold to a caravan of slave traders, dragged to a foreign country, and put up for sale to the highest bidder, he suffered at the hands of those closest to him. He was only 17 years old, on the cusp of manhood, his whole life before him. It is hard to imagine his despair as he grew everyday a day older, bound by slavery, unable to free himself. I imagine he poured out his sorrow to God, earnestly, desperately. I imagine there were days when the tears flowed and the prayers were constant, whispered into the night, grunted under the weight of slave labor, begged beneath the whip of his captors.

I imagine there were days, even worse, when he was despondent, too exhausted to form the words, too weary to find the faith, too numb from the pain of thinking that, perhaps, God had forgotten him.

The beginning of Joseph’s story reads like a list of events- this happened, then this happened, then this happened- without much attention given to how Joseph felt about those things, how he survived. We are told how his brothers felt- driven by rage, divided in intention, conspiring to cover their evil deed. We are told how his father felt- tearing his clothes, dressing in sackcloth, weeping in sorrow that his life was over. Then there is a pause in the story, right at the climax, when we are told a completely different story, seemingly unrelated, about Judah. I want to scream when I get to chapter 38, “Who cares about Judah! What about Joseph!?” It’s like what happened to the dreamer doesn’t really matter that much at all.

And sometimes, in my life, I get stuck in chapter 38, feeling like I am in a dark, dark place, a place of brokenness that is bereft of hope.

Facing the brokenness we all live in can be a disparaging feeling. Living in a world that has been “subjected to futility” (Rom.8:20) feels a bit like stumbling around in the native pastures of Texas. The herd often winters there amongst prickly cedars and thorny mesquites. It is where you might imagine the rattlesnakes congregate and the coyote gives its mournful call. The cattle are restless during their internment in the native. I imagine they must wonder if they’ve been forgotten as long days of searching for nourishment lean out the fat of summer’s abundance. Their months in the native scar the land with a mix of cattle trails. For such large creatures, they leave impressively small trails, no more than a foot wide. Often the trails cross over one another, making a mix master of seemingly senseless wandering. Finding your way through the maze can be disorienting. Even though I know the land, I can sometimes feel lost, wondering which way to go. It is the place I find myself spiritually when painful circumstances surround me, hemming me in by a feeling of meaningless despair. Where am I? Which way is home? How do I pray?

It all seems a little pointless, honestly, as I am retracing my steps over well worn paths of sorrow and doubt and am left wondering if life is sometimes just a series of unfortunate events, unrelated, unimportant, undeserving of the attention of God.

Suffering often seems a hopeless place, like that rocky native land, where the sound of your own groaning echoes through barren spaces of unanswered questions. I feel like Joseph must have felt a hopelessness in his own soul, the cold reality of his shackles giving a feeling that his life was over. I have been in that place, and as I sat with my struggling friend, I shared my own broken story- the years of physical pain, the near bankruptcy, the wayward children, the death of our daughter. I confessed my own times of despair, how I had doubted God’s goodness and wondered if he even cared. I told about the heartache that still sometimes overwhelms me.

A holiday like Mother’s Day can so often magnify our pain as so much of it is tied to children- the ones we have, the ones we lost, the ones we longed for but were never given.

As I relayed my own sorrow, my friend asked me the question, “How do you find hope?” It is an interesting way to ask that question because in order to “find” something, an active pursuit must take place. Truthfully, I do not always view my story with a sense of hope. I have to find hope in the broken by holding to the truths of God’s promises and remembering, as Joseph did, that even though his suffering was the result of evil, God intended it for good (Gen. 50:20), a truth most gloriously seen in the cross.

As I pondered this, we were moving the cattle out of the native and into spring grazing. We climbed the hill overlooking the land to find any strays that might otherwise get left behind. Coming over the final rise and through the last patch of brush, I was astounded at the clarity of it all. From this vantage point, I could see there was a method to the meandering, and it took on an intentionality that I couldn’t grasp while in its midst. Those cattle trails often lead to a source of water, a protein tub, or a bail of hay. The way cut through that treacherous rocky ravine or the pass where they are pressed upon by prickly brush is necessary to reach nourishment for the journey.

In the desolation, they were driven to find the hope left for them by one who had gone before them to prepare the way.

And this is why chapter 38 is in the middle of Joseph’s broken story, because it is not another, unrelated story at all but rather it is The Story that gives his story the hope we all long for. It highlights the path of the coming Messiah (Matt. 1:3), and reminds us that God has woven the story of redemption throughout our pain. The winding path, the prickly brush, or the seemingly impossible sorrow that has entered your life is not unimportant to God, but rather it is of utmost importance, leading you to a gospel nourishment that is necessary for the sustaining of your soul.

And though you cannot always see it, Paul tells us that the hope that we cannot see is the hope that saves us (Rom. 8:24-25).

The cows have been feasting on the abundance of spring grass for a few weeks now, but the last time we went to check them, I watched in amazement as they followed the rancher eagerly back into that desolate native. As soon as they heard his call, heads lifted and hooves eagerly pounded after him. Watching them, I realized that the view from the top of the hill is but a faint imagining of another hill where hope sprang forth from the brokenness of the Savior. If God would do that for me, I know he will meet me in the desolate, a calm voice reminding me of his care, a bag of feed ready to satisfy my longing, his steady presence a reminder that he is the hope found in the midst of the difficult journey.