My Broken Doll
by Peggy Jo Stanley
One dreary, rainy day as I was rummaging through an old storage barrel looking for a diary, I found a music box I had as a child. It used to have a ballerina that would twirl around as the music played. Anxiously bringing the music box into my bedroom, I hurriedly dumped the contents onto my bed, and my heart broke. There she was - a small doll with red hair in pig tails. Her little dismembered body was dirty. All her arms and legs were detached, scattered on the bed; one was even missing. Torn and tattered by life, stuffed away and forgotten even as my own precious inner child. Battered and broken by the pains of life, she hid in the dark crevasses of my mind and soul. I can't remember her - her loving, playing and enjoying life. The spark and thrill of life had been stolen away from her so early in childhood. Why would a person abuse and torment a precious, little child, stealing away her innocence, robbing her of life? The essence of her being was shattered; fragmented pieces scattered like a broken mirror. Will I ever see a reflection of that little child again? She's groping around in total darkness, hiding her hideous self. Believing she's defective, bad, unlovable, unacceptable, damaged and dirty, she aimlessly wanders around in this black abyss looking desperately for something or someone to cling to. Yet, when she finds someone, the risk of exposing her true self is so great that she pushes that one away, frantically beating her fists on his breast. The excruciating pain pierces through my heart with such anguish when I gaze at this precious child, even I push her away. Sitting down, she grabs her knees and sobs into the night. I can taste the salt from her tears as they stream down her cheeks. I feel like humpty dumpty where all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put humpty together again. As a weeping child brings her broken toy to her father to mend, I'm bringing my broken, wounded inner child to You, God, my heavenly Father. For only You can put my broken pieces together again. Even as You, God, are not afraid to embrace the wounded child, help me to reach out in unconditional love and acceptance to my inner child, and by doing that, embrace the pain - not to run from it any longer. Free me so that I may weep with and for that precious child of mine. Bring to my remembrance, "weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning." Looking into that doll's face lying there on the bed, I see she's wearing a bright smile. The spark of life has not been quenched in her spirit. She longs to be whole again, and she's in recovery here with me. God is mending the broken pieces!
[Home] [Miss Stanley] [Testimonies}[Email]