The Day the Box Arrived Broken

Lent invites us to slow down and take an honest look at the places in our lives that feel broken. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing a series of reflections on the journey from brokenness to wholeness — beginning with the simple but difficult act of seeing the pieces honestly.

I knew as soon as she set it down.

The postal clerk placed the box on the counter, and I heard it — that unmistakable tinkling of broken pottery settling into fragments.

My heart sank.

I smiled politely, took the box, and walked out to my car holding my breath.  I tried not to imagine the worst.

It had been over two months since I’d mailed it from Poland.

I am 100% Polish, and I had gone there on a work trip to prepare for bringing 150 youth and young adults to World Youth Day. But there was time to explore. To visit the icon of Our Lady of Częstochowa. To walk through Auschwitz. To tour the salt mines.  To eat authentic pierogi.

And to shop for Polish stoneware.

My family has collected it for years — often ordering from American retailers (thank you, QVC) who sourced it in Poland. I had a few pieces myself.

But this was different.

This was close to the source. Authentic. Special.

When my husband, a male colleague, and I stumbled into that tiny shop in Kraków, I couldn’t contain my delight. They were… less delighted. But they humored me.

The shelves were packed floor to ceiling — patterns I’d never seen, shapes I didn’t know existed. I carefully selected one-of-a-kind gifts for relatives I love deeply.

As we left with two full shopping bags, reality set in.

How was I going to get all of this home?

A post office sign solved that problem — or so I thought.

We navigated forms we couldn’t read. Bought a box and packing materials. Wrapped each piece carefully. Secured it as best we could.

And sent it off.

Two months later, standing in my office, I opened the box.

Broken.

One after another.

Shattered. Beyond repair.

Ruined.

I remember unwrapping each piece slowly, still hoping the next one might be intact.

Surely not all of it.
Surely we packed at least one well enough.

But each layer of paper revealed another fracture.

Not this one too.

I would unwrap a piece, see the crack running through it, and set it aside before reaching for the next. A small stack of broken pottery slowly forming on the table.

Not this one either.

By the time I reached the bottom of the box, hope had quietly slipped out of the room.

I had known it was a risk. Shipping fragile pottery across the ocean isn’t exactly a sure thing. But I thought we’d done a good job. We’d wrapped it carefully. We’d tried.

I was frustrated with the shipping companies.

I was disappointed in the whole situation.

But mostly… I was disappointed in myself.

It wasn’t enough.
We didn’t do it well enough.
I didn’t do it well enough.

The gifts I had imagined giving — the ones that felt meaningful and personal — were now garbage.

When Something Breaks

I’ve noticed how quickly I label something ruined.

Not damaged. Not cracked. Not salvageable.

Ruined.

And once something is ruined, my instinct is to get rid of it.

Throw it away.
Move on.
Don’t look too closely.

I get frustrated with broken things.

More honestly, I get frustrated with the broken pieces of my own life.

The Broken Pieces We Carry

At different times — sometimes quietly, sometimes painfully — I’ve carried pieces that felt cracked.

Sometimes it’s imperfection. The nagging sense that I didn’t do enough, protect enough, perform enough.

Sometimes it’s emptiness. Comparison. Wanting to be someone else. Or wanting to be myself and not quite knowing who that is anymore.

Sometimes it’s suffering. Grief. Loss. Circumstances that knock the box around whether I packed it well or not.

When those pieces surface, I feel the same impulse I felt standing over that shattered stoneware:

Maybe it would be easier to just throw it away.

Abandon the project.
Withdraw from the relationship.
Give up on the dream.
Lower the expectation.

Call it ruined.

The Boxes We Leave Closed

And if I’m honest, sometimes I don’t open the box at all.

I leave it taped shut.

It’s easier that way.

I can stay busy.
Focus on what’s still intact.
Tell myself it’s not that bad.

Sometimes I convince myself the box isn’t really there at all.

But the truth is, unopened boxes still take up space.

And whatever is inside them doesn’t disappear just because I refuse to look.

But opening it feels risky.

If I really look at what’s inside, I might have to admit something.

That I tried and it didn’t work.
That I wanted something and it didn’t last.
That I packed it carefully and life still knocked it around.

We avoid opening the box for good reasons.

We’re afraid it confirms our failure.

We’re afraid it’s worse than we thought.

We’re afraid nothing can be done.

We’re afraid it says something about us.

Seeing feels vulnerable.  Almost like confession.

The Courage to Look

And maybe that’s why this season slows me down.

Lent has a way of quieting the noise just enough that the things we’ve been avoiding start to surface. The distractions thin out. The pace softens.

And in that quieter space, it becomes harder to pretend the box isn’t there.

Not to fix what’s broken.  

Not to rush toward meaning.

But to sit long enough to see what I’ve been avoiding.

Before anything can be remade, it has to be acknowledged.

The box has to be opened.

The pieces have to be laid out on the table.

Not sorted.
Not glued.
Not redeemed yet.

Just seen.

What box in your life have you quietly labeled ruined — without ever really opening it to see what’s inside?

Next week: Imperfection — when the cracks feel like our fault.

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