Hope for Broken Boxes

Hope for Broken Boxes

Hope for Broken Boxes

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Just thinking about my family of origin. Dad loved three things, Jesus, his family, and the Washington Redskins. On Sundays after church, our family gathered around the tube to cheer the marron and gold. We yelled our carb stuffed faces off for the next four hours.

No other relationship impacts us like the family. We carry the name our parents gave us for the rest of our lives. Often we’re blessed with nicknames, like sport, champ, and stud.

The ones closest to us also apply labels. Like stamps on a UPS package, they can direct our destiny and identity. Maybe you would like a new label. There’s good news. By faith in Jesus, all things become new. In time we begin to see ourselves the way God sees us, and everything changes. Galatians 4:7 says, “So you are no longer a slave, but God’s child; and since you are his child, God has made you also an heir.”

Each family unit a tiny mail distribution facility.
Packages arrive small and stay just a while.
Wrapped tight woolen blankets, two eyes, beating heart.
Each marked by a stamp, handle with care.

Parenting tiny parcels growing sturdy like brown boxes
Processed in time for shipping day, labels slapped on.
Guiding directions, black and white, barcode, super glue.
Handling, speaking, label affixed, words they believe are true.

But the labels we adhere can be cruel, precious package lost.
Trampled, dirtied the box returns, tossed on useless heap.
But a prince from afar comes and sees the forgotten pile.
He stoops and chooses, the broken he mends and reuses.

Filthy, lying label peels and falls, a newly printed one appears.
“I love you, child. You are mine. I’m sending you. Do not fear.”
Gone busted corners born by the beaten, worn out box
A new container, filled with hope, the Savior’s never-ending love.

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Hope for Broken Boxes

Just thinking about my family of origin. Dad loved three things, Jesus, his family, and the Washington Redskins. On Sundays after church, our family gathered