Broken Glass

It was a tiny jelly jar, half the size of a regular glass. I was in a hurry and picked up the jelly jar and practically threw it in the dish washer.

I heard it shatter. The force of it spread glass on my chest and sent the pieces flying all over the kitchen. My dog, Lucy, was at my side. I grabbed her and picked her up, examined her eyes. No glass there. I carried her to safety. I didn't want her walking on broken glass.

Then I had a sharp memory of me at 10 years old. I'm in mother's kitchen and a big bowl crashed into the sink. Mom stood at the cupboard, spun around to make sure I was not hurt and then she broke into tears. "You won't believe how far this glass has spread," she said. "It's very hard to clean up broken glass." We got to work and she was right: The glass was in the sink, on the cupboard, all over the floor, even in the sugar bowl. It took a long time to bring order to the kitchen.

Flash forward 40 years and here I am this morning: Cleaning up glass. The big chunks in the bottom of the dish washer were hard to get but, one by one,  I finally cleared them away. The tiny slivers on the floor weren't any easier. First, the broom. Then, paper towels. Finally, the vacuum.

Cleaning up the glass became a mending operation. I thought about the relationships in my life that are broken. There are only a few but the ones there are . . . hurt.  It's hard to walk on broken glass. I thought about how unskillful I have been in my conversation with a few friends and my children. I've said things too fast that I did not mean. As I type this, my thumbs and index fingers are bleeding. Now I've got blood on my keyboard. Mending relationships is like picking up pieces of broken glass.

It's slow and tedious.