Breaking bread with the broken

It is no easy thing to carry hurt in one hand and hope in the other— to believe in healing while you’re still bleeding,

To look into the eyes of those who called you family, and feel as though you never actually knew them at all:

It’s a sacred ache—to long for reconciliation

in the same breath that remembers the breaking. To take your seat at the table where love once laughed, now laced with silence and splinters. But even in the ache, God is near.

He sees. He knows the weight.

And He does not ask you to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Instead, He invites you to bring the pain to Him—not polished, not packaged—just real.

Because hope isn’t the absence of pain;

it’s the presence of God in the middle of it.

It’s choosing to sit at the table anyway,

believing He is the One who prepares it for you

—even in the presence of those who wounded you.

You are not alone at that table.

The Shepherd is there.

The One who restores, who anoints,

who binds up the brokenhearted

and never wastes a wound.

So let the tears fall if they must.

But lift your eyes—

not to the betrayal, but to the One who was betrayed and yet forgave.

To the One who was rejected so that you could be accepted by his Father.

Not to the pain, but to the promise:

that He makes all things new.

Stay soft. Stay present. Stay at the table.

Because grace still sits down beside you,

and Jesus still breaks bread with the broken.