He Will Not Break a Bruised Reed
In 2023, I traveled to Charlotte, NC, for a work conference. The company I was with at the time had sent me there to attend sessions on business operations, plumbing materials, and industry trends. During the day, I sat in seminars about supply chain efficiency and product innovation. In the evenings, I found myself alone in my hotel room, reading my Bible and praying.
I was in a season of deep questioning. Five years had passed since I stepped away from ministry, and my life looked nothing like I had imagined it would. For almost a decade, I had attended annual conferences centered on evangelism and pastoral ministry, sitting under sermons about calling, mission, and service to the Church. Now, instead of discussing theology and discipleship, I was talking about fittings, fixtures, and distribution logistics. There was nothing wrong with it—it was good, honest work—but it felt foreign. If I was honest with myself, I felt like a fish out of water.
During that time, I kept returning to a verse that had become a source of comfort: Matthew 12:20—
“A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not quench, until he brings justice to victory.”
Jesus was quoting the prophet Isaiah, describing His own gentle and merciful nature. A bruised reed—a stalk of wheat bent and damaged—was usually broken off by a farmer because it likely wouldn’t produce fruit. A smoldering wick, struggling to stay lit, would typically be extinguished and replaced. Yet Jesus says He will do neither. He does not discard the broken or snuff out the weak. Instead, He sustains them.
I felt like both: a bruised reed and a smoldering wick. My sense of purpose was fractured, my calling uncertain. That week, my prayer became simple: “Jesus, help me find my purpose now.”
One of my last nights in Charlotte, I decided to get out of my hotel and explore the city. I took a cab downtown and wandered through the streets, taking in the sights and sounds. Eventually, I stumbled upon a small tattoo shop that looked like something out of another era—an old-school, no-frills kind of place. Curious, I stepped inside.
The shop was nearly empty, just a single tattoo artist sitting at the front. We struck up a conversation. I asked him about Charlotte, and he gave me some recommendations on places to eat. Then, almost as an afterthought, he asked me if I had ever considered getting a tattoo.
I hesitated for a moment before telling him about the verse I had been meditating on all week. I told him I had thought about getting a bruised reed tattooed on my forearm someday—a reminder that, even in my brokenness, God wasn’t finished with me yet.
His eyes widened in shock. Without saying a word, he motioned me over to his desk. There, sitting on the table, was a brand-new Bible. He had just recently become a Christian and had started reading the Bible for the first time. He was working his way through Matthew, and—of all places—his bookmark was resting at chapter 12. He told me he had been struggling to understand the very verse I had just mentioned when I walked in.
We both just sat there for a moment, taking in what had just happened. The sheer providence of it was undeniable. There I was, feeling lost, questioning my purpose, wondering if God was still working in my life. And at that exact moment, I found myself in a tiny tattoo shop with a man who needed someone to explain the very Scripture that had been carrying me through my own doubts.
I did the only thing I knew to do: I asked him if he had time to give me that tattoo.
He nodded, and soon, I had a bruised reed inked onto my forearm—a permanent reminder that God does not discard the broken. That night, I walked out of that shop not just with a tattoo, but with a renewed sense of hope. God’s providence is often quiet, subtle, unexpected. Sometimes, it leads us into a dimly lit tattoo shop to remind us that He is not finished with us yet.
And sometimes, it places us in someone else’s path at just the right moment to remind them of the very same thing.
