We all know that old wounds come back to haunt us as we age. The injuries we experienced in our youth, a time when we thought we were invincible, surface once again as the aches and pains of old age .I suppose I expected those old wounds would affect this old body. What I did not anticipate were echoes of wounds of the heart and soul.
This photo taken by my nephew Dillan has informed my prayers and meditations for many months. He looks a little too much like me for comfort. Is this my nephew, or is this me? It’s an easy mistake to make given the family resemblance.
Instead of the clean and polished appearance I hope to see in the mirror most mornings, this image reminds me I am far from perfect. Emotional baggage I thought was long gone seems to resurface when I least expect it. Perhaps healing is more like peeling an onion than letting go of an old suitcase. God offers the healing I can handle one layer at a time, in His time not mine. Healing seems more of a journey full of twists and turns rather than a simple trip straight to a destination.
Then I started to see more than just my nephew or me in this photo. What if I am looking at each and every one of us? What do you see? What if we are looking at all of humanity in the flesh at this time? Perhaps the cracks represent our desire to cling to the pain of brokenness rather than face the fear of growth and transformation. Is it too much to believe a healing has been prepared for us? Is it too difficult to see ourselves as a full reflection of the image of Christ, God incarnate, messy, complicated, yet somehow complete?
Each of us struggle to listen to God amidst the noises and chaos of the world. The world says why bother – we are all out for ourselves – that’s the whole story. It doesn’t matter if you are wrong. It only matters if you get caught breaking the rules. Then just lie about it so much and so often that nobody can remember the truth.
God says just start there. So what if you are broken? We all are. Once we know where we are broken, we begin to grow and heal. We begin to live into what God has created us to be. We claim the promise of abundant life, messy, complicated and yet complete. We can weather new wounds along with the echo of old wounds as just another part of the journey. More than that, we begin to see the world not as random individuals but as brothers and sisters, also broken, also in need of abundant grace, also seeking abundant life. We continue on this journey, seeing the twists and turns as a way to weave together the story of God that includes each and every one of us.
Where are you today? Is the world too loud and overwhelming? See healing is a journey and simply make time apart to reflect. Just a few minutes will do. The first step is to claim what is sheer gift. God loves you just as you are, here and now. Not because of who you are or what you have or what you do. Just because you are you and God is God. Rest in the wideness in God’s mercy, mercy that creates space where you can right-size yourself, trust in forgiveness for where you fall short and continue to grow and heal. And always remember, God just asks us to be present and open to that healing, in His time, not ours.
Text by Connie Chintall ©2025, All Rights Reserved
Photo entitled ‘Fractured Reflection’, by Dillan Brobofski©2024, used with his permission, All Rights Reserved.
Crisp, clear mornings make for perfect football weather and a welcome relief from the endless rain and oppressive heat of this past summer. Yet I find myself stuck in a funk, grieving for my father who passed away ten years ago this month. He led a full life and died at ninety in our home, so it isn’t about him at all. I can’t say he was cheated or taken too soon. It’s me that feels the loss so keenly this month. It’s when life brings burdens that I cannot relieve that I miss my father the most. Two of those I love dearly are facing health crises, dealing with pain and uncertainty. I feel helpless to make a difference, except to sit and pray. Before you ask, both of these friends would jump to say those prayers make a difference. I firmly believe in the power of prayer yet the suffering in the interim is sometimes more than I can begin to fathom. Yet I persevere, knowing that God has provided a healing for them both. I believe because I have experienced such healing myself, again and again. I may seem put together and wise, but underneath it all, there are fractures that run deep. I say I am fractured not broken, the word more often used in hymns and sermons. The bones all remain in place. They still hold me up and carry me around, but there are days when I can feel each and every crack. Yet God shines through my words and actions most when I reach out in my own weakness. I surrender to the wideness in God’s mercy, letting go of my own limited understanding and trusting this is not the end of the story. I pray and wait, ponder and mull, choosing my words carefully. Sometimes I pray for God’s words rather than my own, because I have no words at all. Often I pray with my breath, reaching out to God as I breathe out, receiving blessing and protection for those in need of prayer as I breathe in. So where does my father enter into all this? His silly laugh would cut through all this serious nonsense and break the tension, or he would tell a story that would make a memory so vivid you would think you were there all over again. He would lift me out of the moment so I could gain more perspective and carry on. Make time today to lift another up in prayer. Ask how you can help make a difference. Trust God to make up the difference when you fall short. Tell a story that brings back a happy memory or make a new memory. Most of all, offer up your fractures, allowing God’s light to shine through the cracks in your heart and soul. Text by Connie Chintall ©2018, art entitled ‘Underneath It All’ by David Buckwalter©2018, incorporating art by Leigh Hooper, used with their permission, All Rights Reserved. To see more of David’s work, go to 
It’s a cold, blustery day and I am hoping the dogwoods in my front yard will bloom before long. I love all the flowering trees in Virginia, like the one in this photo by my friend Heidi Anne. It has taken considerable contemplation to unearth the significance of such a tree to me. Memories seem to surface when we are ready to take hold of them. I contracted the old fashioned measles when I was five years old. The fever spiked at 105 degrees and my grandmother packed me in ice in her clawfoot tub. She refused to let them take me to the hospital because she was convinced I would die there. She felt the nurses were overworked and I needed more constant care. In her words, I was ‘too close to piercing the veil’. After the fever broke I spent three weeks in a darkened room with a radio turned down to a whisper. The volume knob had been removed to keep it at that level. Old fashioned measles was notorious for blinding and deafening children that survived. Any loud noise or bright light could compromise my senses for the rest of my life. I did end up with a weak left eye, the side that faced the bathroom door while I was in the tub full of ice. My hearing is actually more acute, an effect experienced by those who were meticulously cared for. I do not remember much about those three weeks, except an overwhelming sense that I was not alone. I knew my grandmother and her friends were desperately praying for me. She fed me that fact with each and every meal of jello and each time she checked to be sure I was drinking water. It was more of an abiding sense and a knowledge that a healing waiting me. I made up stories in my head and listened to all sorts of strange radio stations. Perhaps part of what gave me hope was that untamed imagination that is the prevue of every five year old. My most vivid memory is sitting on the porch for the first time after those three long weeks. Being outdoors seemed like a fairyland, and every color, every sight was over the top. It was early spring and there was a blooming tree in front of the porch, a tree a lot like the one in photo. Even my perspective mimics the photo, since I was in a reclined position. There were even flags of a sort that glorious day, at least flags in my imagination. The veil my grandmother feared I would pierce had become a direct line to the heavens. Life of any form was beyond precious, something miraculous and awe inspiring in its own right. My life since has been full of ups and downs, uncanny victories but also devastating disappointments. Yet regardless of what life brings, I begin each day with pray, with hope against hope in what may seem to others to be beyond hope. You see I have no choice but to believe in prayer, because without it you would not be reading this blog. I have been living on borrowed time for all but five years of my life, and God willing, will continue to live on borrowed time for as long as God needs me here. Make time today to thank God for your precious life, given to you breath by breath. Let the wonders of nature speak to you. Pause to contemplate the beginnings of new life on the trees, the nodules that began to grow last autumn as soon as the leaves fell. And most of all, trust in the healing that has been prepared for you, and deeply and slowly breathe it in, one breath at a time. Text by Connie Chintall ©2017, photo entitled ‘Direct Line to Heaven’ by Heidi Anne Morris ©2015-2017, used with her permission, All Rights Reserved.
Seek the Sacred Amidst the Ordinary 