The Broken Man

“Broken crayons still color.” – Unknown

He once loved and was deeply loved in return.
He once was steward of a most precious gem – the only one of its kind.
He once was a lover, a planner, a dreamer, a believer.
He once smiled wider and laughed louder.
He once walked with an air of confidence and purpose.
He once loved and was deeply loved in return.

She was an angel, a goddess, a queen, a smart-ass.
She was a priceless gift wrapped with grace and beauty, a ribbon of class, and a dash of sass.
She was fire and thunder, water and air and seamlessly towed the line between these extremes.
She was an absolute force of nature and he was but a leaf in the wind, rendered moot in her presence…
And he was the better for it.

Her smile made him weak.
Her laugh was his favorite song.
Her touch eased all pain and suffering.
Her eyes unlocked every door in his heart.
Her kiss the sweetest honey.

But, as honey gradually exposes all structural deficiencies in its cask, so too did her femininity gradually exposed his masculinity for what it was: incomplete, inconsistent, unpolished, unstable.
He was laid bare.
He ran out of excuses.
He had no one left to point the finger to.
He had no more “she’s crazy”, “daddy issues”, and “she got baggage” left in the Holster of Manhood.
He was laid bare, and not because she herself revealed it to him, but because it became quite obvious.
He wanted to reciprocate – to love deeply – but could not.
He did not know how.
As time faded away, so too did the charade, the facade, the mask.

To him, her requests became demands – unfair and unrealistic.
To him, her standards became mandates – unreasonable and unreachable.
To him, her questions became probes – unrelenting and unforgiving.
To him, her opinions became inferences – unwanted and unprovoked.

You must realize….
He, like many others, fell prey to a fragmented narrative.
He, like many others, expected submission but yielded to return it.
He, like many others, exceeded valiantly in condemnation but failed miserably in validation.
He, like many others, had a wandering eye and a friendly tongue.
He, like many others, lacked a solid foundation, a backbone, and conviction.
He, like many others, lacked a singular focus and purpose.
He, like many others, knew very well how to please her body but knew very little in how to stimulate her mind.
He, like many others, was bred to subjugate and dominate, but not to submit emotionally and commit wholeheartedly.
He, like many others, cared only for her emotional well-being to the extent it made him comfortable, but no further.
He, like many others, was prone to anger and violent outbursts, blaming others before examining self.
He, like many others, never laid a hand on her, but he learned that the hardest blows often come from spoken words rather than silent fists.

So he did as broken things do – he cut, he wounded, he damaged, he hurt. Where once he would ignore, overlook, belittle, dismiss, and disqualify prior infractions, this time the victim was she – the angel, the goddess, the queen, the smart-ass.

So, he lost sleep.
So, he lost weight.
So, he grieved.
So, he mourned.
So, he wept.
So, he prayed.
So, he fasted.
So, he begged.
So, he pled.
So, he apologized.
So, he repented.
So, he longed for redemption and a second chance…

To be her man.
To be a man.

But, not the shallow, incomplete construct that has been passed down from one broken generation of men to the next. But a rooted, complete construct passed down from Almighty God – He who got into the dirt, formed man from the dust, created man in His own image, breathed life into his lungs, gave him purpose and meaning, gave him a name, and gave him, in due time, an helpmate, formed from his own rib, so that he would know that she was as much a part of him as he was a part of her.

So, he purposes within himself to do what needs to be done to become whole again.
So, he purposes within himself to do what needs to be done to be with her again.

He thinks of nothing, hopes for nothing, wants for nothing than to be held, to be loved, to be vulnerable, to be submissive, to be all, to be complete for her – the angel, the goddess, the queen, the smart-ass.

This is a crusade. This is an expedition. This is jihad. This is holy war.
This is a quest to win back the heart of one who loved him, perhaps, because of his brokenness, but, unequivocally, in spite of it.

So, he hopes…
He hopes, knowing that hope can be chiefest of torments, a master of misery – a death sentence – but knowing that hope is the one thing left that connects one half of his heart to the other.
He hopes, wishing that it will not prove to be false but truer than any arrow in Cupid’s quiver.
He hopes, believing that somehow, someway, there’s still a chance for redemption, for restoration, for reparation.

So, he works…
He works, knowing that action is the twin brother of faith.
He works, to piece back together the fragments of his manhood by looking towards the Son of Man.
He works, to understand love based on the love that God the Father has for him – and to accept it.
He works, for her, yes, but primarily for himself.
After all, what good is work if it is not genuine? What good is progress if it lacks integrity?

You do not have to understand. You do not need to understand. In fact, it is not for you to understand. He cares not for your opinions, your quips, your critiques, your insults, your jokes, your pity, your well wishes, your sympathy, your advice, your anecdotes, your hopes, or your dreams…

He only cares for her – the angel, the goddess, the queen, the smart-ass.

So, he hopes…
So, he works…
So, he hopes…
So, he works…

The Broken Man


Featured Image: “Shell” – Rook Floro, sculptor