Broken eggshells once held life: sustained, protected, nourished. No more.

Here, the eggshell blue leaked off the brush all broken. Fragile, jagged edges usher new life. What has broken the shell will wrestle free, emerge messy and sightless, be fed, learn to fly.

It’s the sick who need a doctor, and while we celebrate wholeness and healing, we remember the broken places, too. We remember and whisper hope to the places still held together by fragile shells, speak courage to the messy middle between unhatched and free flight.

It’s funny to think of broken fragments as a birthplace of hope, but I do.

{This 8×10 Print of Nest: A Study in Brokenness is available here.}