The Shattered Glass, Painful Shards and Grief

The sound was so sharp and dramatic as it hit the surface, it startled my sometimes “still-tender” nervous system. It brought tears to the eyes of a few others in the room, especially the one who was unloading the dishwasher when it happened.

The room fell quiet after a few “holy moly’s” slipped out of my mouth.

I paused, inhaled, and exhaled. Then reminded myself it’s just a broken glass.

Of course, I knew it was only a glass cup that broke. Nothing really earth-shattering. I know, real earth-shattering.

But I sometimes still feel the assault of dramatic/traumatic moments like this. It still surprises me whenever it happens, and I suddenly feel overwhelmed by moments like this, where things crash and shatter, and those “dramas” replay in my mind.

But this was just a glass.

I asked if everyone was okay and hugged the one who had been placing mugs on the shelf and now felt responsible for the shattered mess. We were all okay. A little rattled, but okay.

Still, glass was everywhere.

In my coffee cup.

In the pencil holder.

Across the counter.

On the floor.

Even across the room.

It was a minor but slightly precarious situation. No one was wearing shoes. The pups were running about and had to be contained to keep their paws safe. I quickly shifted into a plan: pick up the larger pieces, then wipe everything down with wet paper towels to catch the invisible shards. I knew the danger wasn’t over—not until every tiny piece was gone.

Most of the big pieces had broken right where the glass landed. But as I cleaned the table—thinking it was clear—I felt it: the sharp sting of a shard pierce my skin.

It was barely visible, but I knew it was there. The familiar sharp sting of pain.

I needed a pair of readers, a flashlight, and some sharp tweezers to remove the sliver embedded in my thumb. Thankfully, I got it out quickly. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it bled just enough to show me exactly where it had pierced.

That’s when it hit me…

The sharpest, most painful pieces aren’t always the biggest.

The one that hurt the most was almost invisible.

Even after cleaning and bagging up the broken mess, wiping down every surface, and vacuuming the floor and my computer bag (where I later found several pieces), I thought the cleanup was over.

It wasn’t over.

There were still shattered pieces.

Later, I discovered more shards: a small pile near the dustpan, another chunk on the shelf well below where the cup fell, and a sliver under the chair where I usually sit.

Thankfully, I spotted that one before I sat down barefoot.

A broken glass doesn’t just fall and land in one place.

It scatters. It bounces. It hides.

Did you ever notice that when you break glass, the pieces can be found days, weeks, maybe months later?

And even after you think it’s cleaned up, it turns up again—sharp, hidden, dangerous, still very unexpected and painful when the pieces stab or cut you.

I’ve found that those smaller ones can be the most painful, often unexpectedly, and can be hard to remove once they’ve penetrated deep beneath your skin. Of course, the big ones can do some significant damage too, but they are easier to step around, or can be carefully picked up.

The smaller ones can be scattered throughout the kitchen, nowhere near where it had fallen, that you accidentally pick up on your foot, or your hand as you swipe your hand across the counter.

It seems like a lot of detail to share for something as simple as a broken glass.

But as I looked down at all the shattered pieces from this one glass, I thought—how could anyone ever put this back together?

The big fragments were obvious, the small, nearly invisible pieces. But to gather them and reassemble them into a usable glass to hold liquid…It would be almost impossible.

Cleaning up and gathering the pieces had me thinking, and I knew exactly what it was and why it had me so curious.

This is Grief.

This is grief.

This is widowhood.

This is my life.

The world sees the big pieces—loss, burial, memorials, mourning.

But the smaller shards?

The ones scattered in unexpected places—those show up later. Quietly. Piercing. Invisible to everyone else. But they still hurt.

Even when we think we’ve cleaned it all up, something cuts us. And it reminds us that the breaking doesn’t stay contained. It scatters. It lingers. It wounds slowly.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” —Psalm 34:18

I’m still tending to the broken places.

Still finding pieces.

Still healing.

If you are too, I see you. The Lord sees you, and He stays close.

Carefully, slowly, trying to pick up the shattered pieces after loss, after losing my spouse. The big pieces—grief, shock, the visible mess—they’re what people see. They assume once those are cleaned up, the worst is over.

But it’s the hidden shards that cut the deepest. The ones you don’t see coming. The ones you find days, weeks, even years later—in unexpected places. The ones that hurt the most. The ones that scattered as your life shattered, that can break you all over again. Grief is like this. The broken pieces of our shattered life sometimes resurface in the most unexpected moments and places.

And still, we go on—tending the mess, carefully wiping down the surfaces of our lives, trying to protect others from the sharp edges, and slowly, gently, healing the places where we’ve been pierced.

But I’ve come to believe and know this, too:

God is good.

He meets us in the smallest details like a dustpan handed to us by a child, a friend or loved one (my son or daughter) who pulls a sliver from our skin, or someone who’s willing to sit with us in the middle of the mess.

He shines a light on the shattered pieces, even if we can’t put everything back together as it was.

He is the glue that mends our broken hearts in quiet, unexpected ways, through the waiting, hoping, and healing.

May we tend our broken places gently.

May we honor the sharp edges others can’t see.

May we remember that some pieces may never be put back together.

May we find grace in the dustpans handed to us by others—in the hands that stay to help, and in the mercy that reminds us.

May we keep trusting that God sees what others miss.

And may we believe that healing is holy—even when it’s slow.

Even when life shatters, and grief leaves behind pieces we think we’ve already cleaned up, God meets us there. In the quiet, the lingering, the unexpected gently helps us tend what’s still broken. May He meet you there.

Even when we think we’ve cleaned it all up, something cuts us. And it reminds us that the breaking doesn’t stay contained. It scatters. It lingers. It wounds slowly.

Heather lebano