What If Some Things Can Be Fixed?

Many years ago, I bought my sister a snow globe. 

It featured Hoops of Hoops & Yoyo, two decidedly silly Hallmark characters whose ridiculousness reminded me of the goofiness that my sister and I shared. 

With one gentle shake of the globe, Hoops, carrying an umbrella, became showered with glitter alongside the mantra “Happy thoughts turn sprinkles to sparkles.” While I always balked a little at that sentiment, knowing that life isn’t as simple as happy thoughts, there was a truth that resonated. Life really was better and more sparkly with my sister. When we were together, there were more happy thoughts.

That snow globe, purchased sometime in the 2000s, followed my sister from home to home, eventually landing in her bedroom in Asheville. It was there over years of visits, reflecting our lifetime of sparkly silliness. It was there during her recovery from brain surgery, holding out hope that sparklier days were coming. It was there when her silliness started to dim, reminding me of happier times.

After my sister’s death, the snow globe came to live on my dresser, where it stood for four years.

Until one day, it broke.

A couple of months ago, I walked into my bedroom to the sight of it shattered on the floor. The globe was in pieces, glitter spilled everywhere. I fell to my knees and sobbed, devastated to see it ruined, and furious with myself for leaving it in a spot vulnerable to my cat’s antics.

It felt, in that moment, like everything was literally falling apart, and like something had been taken from me. When we lose someone we love, what’s left behind becomes so precious. Why, then, did this have to be taken away too?

Through tears, I cleaned up the pieces and wiped the glitter from the floor. I took a photo of the broken globe and texted it to friends, needing witness to my loss. I put the pieces in a safe place, feeling brokenhearted by their brokenness, and surrendered to another goodbye.

About a week later, I had a message from a good friend, who said all the right things to validate my loss. And then she said something that I didn’t expect–she’d found someone who could repair the globe. If I could get the snow globe in the mail, she would handle the rest.

I was beyond touched by her thoughtfulness and generosity. And later, I was surprised to realize that the thought of repair hadn’t even occurred to me. As I cleaned up the broken pieces, I told myself things like, “This is sad, and it’s okay. You know how to lose. You know how to say goodbye.” It didn’t even cross my mind to Google “snow globe repair.”

I’d become so accustomed to sitting with things that can’t be fixed, I’d forgotten that some things can be.

A couple of weeks ago, my repaired snow globe arrived in the mail. I felt nervous opening it, knowing that it wasn’t going to be exactly the same.

And it’s not the same. The glass is a whole lot sturdier. The sparkles are different from the original. But oh, what a joy it is to tilt that globe and see the sprinkles turning to sparkles again.

My snow globe now tells two stories. One, of the love of silliness that my sister and I shared. And another, of a friend who saw what could be fixed when I couldn’t, and who generously offered to make something whole again, even if it will never be the same.

When we’re in grief, we create space for what’s broken. We should create space for what’s broken. 

And yet, amongst that brokenness, can we also see what remains? 

Amidst all the grief and injustice, all the horror and pain, can we make room for what might be fixed, even if it will never be the same?