This morning, I poured a cup of coffee and ascended the stairs to the Advocacy annex. I’m finally sitting down with the intention of writing this letter. Wouldn’t you know it? Microsoft Word will not open. Or rather, it “opens” but it can’t be summoned from the abyss. It seems my Mac and Microsoft Office are sparring beyond recompense, finally having reached their irreconcilable differences. All my Microsoft programs are now on strike. “We will not work with Mac!” And my Mac is retorting, “Good riddance!” And I’m really in no place to mediate. I’m mad at both of them.
I write today in jest. But yesterday … yesterday I was angry — grind-your-teeth, pull-your-hair-out, throw-your-glasses-across-the-desk angry. I left my desk with a paper copy of this issue and a red pen, and I fled the premises.
I dreamed that just letting my computer rest overnight would allow the Mac vs. Microsoft battle to be worked out. Of course, that didn’t work. But I can joke about the situation today, whereas yesterday I could have thrown the machine down the stairs.
Maybe, maybe I shouldn’t have waited to write the letter from the editor until the very last minute. Maybe I wouldn’t be so angry if I didn’t feel so stressed out.
That’s the thing about brokenness. Our own brokenness is usually presented to us in the face of other brokenness. As you’ll read in this issue, we face a lot of brokenness in the world and in other people — and, yes, in computer software.
The brokenness we recognize within ourselves pairs nicely with humility. It is humbling to realize that we aren’t perfect, or even as great as we imagined. And it’s humility that allows us to acknowledge our brokenness and our need for a Savior who covers all our inadequacies — and then we can humbly rejoice in our weakness, as David Bayne reminds us, because it is through our weakness that Christ’s power is made perfect.
Mandy Mowers