The first music I remember loving was that of the Bee Gees. Way before disco and the whole Saturday Night Fever craze. The harmonies, the beautiful arrangements (listen to some of the early stuff with headphones) and the ways the music could transport me outside of myself. I took a fair amount of grief for loving them. They weren’t cool, I probably just liked the lead singer, and my mom’s constant summation: They sing like their pants are too tight.
How can you mend a broken heart?
How can you stop the rain from falling down?
No matter the reasons, this particular song was a favorite. Chalk it up to childhood angst, it asked some deep questions. Like totally, man.
How can you stop the sun from shining?
What makes the world go round?
The song fed into my over developed sense of wanting to see fairness in the world. During the particularly self-absorbed teenage years, I chose to see it through the lens of the fairness I did – or mostly didn’t – experience in my world.
How can you mend this broken man?
How can a loser ever win?
I mean c’mon, that is prime ammunition for a long, moody session of torment. A quickly scrawled STAY OUT sign on the bedroom door, a strawberry Snapple and a palm’s length of Pringles. That there is a good Saturday afternoon, my friend.
Until the reality of the last line takes all the fun out of exploring one’s anguish by speaking the truth.
Please help me mend my broken heart and let me live again.
This line sounded like a prayer to me. Imploring someone larger than myself to intercede. To help me. To motivate me forward.
Please help me mend…
To work with and through me so that I might not have to deal with my brokenness all by myself.
…and let me live again.
To heal me so that I might be made whole again. Justified, forgiven, free.
The angsty tween is now a middle-aged woman who still falls for the myth that she should “have it together” by now. But along the way I’ve been radically loved by the one truth of how to mend a broken heart.