I was standing by a winter pond looking at the icy fragments jutting up in frozen animation; as I sat there, the cold numbing my bare hands, I had a thought––perhaps, the heart breaks when the blood becomes cold and the wall of the heart freezes, then the heart can break. Warm hearts don’t break because warmth comes from compassion and love. There is a lonely place in the heart, where a longing to reconnect with the Creator is frozen in place; a cold spot eclipsing all the light from the Sun––radiating despair, freezing from the inside out.
In the spring, the warm air on supple breezes melts the broken heart, returning ice back to liquid. A true broken heart, the kind where the Creator can enter, comes from the most inner place of longing. In our world, where everything is a metaphor embedded within common life experiences, the story of life is essential. Life is a parable happening in metaphor. Those who seek riches and happiness, power and greed, are ultimately defeated—the story of life overcomes them. But, the broken heart will always be there waiting to blew in a momentary stop to life before beginning again.