This heart of mine is
such a fragile thing. Like fine porcelain.
I could set it on a shelf, but I tend to put it rather
in the midst of life. Thus it has been broken a million times.
Perhaps the glue with which God mends it is stronger than the
stuff of which it is made. Knowing that His blood was shed to
make me whole, encourages me to pick up the pieces, go on,
and love again. My heart is not a very pretty thing,
with all these cracks and mars and flaws.
But I feel. And it is certainly much
more loving than a heart
that is never