Creating Beauty in Bomb Craters

Acts of resistance in a battle-weary world

On May 28, 1992, a man in a tuxedo sat down in the street and began to play his cello. The deep-throated bellows of his cello intertwined with the smell of smoke lingering from the previous day's attack. Flowers lay scattered among the debris, a poignant tribute to lives lost.

Twenty-four hours earlier, a mortar shell landed in the middle of a bakery in Sarajevo where people were waiting to buy bread. Twenty-two people were killed, and more than seventy were injured. Vedran Smailovic, a cellist in the Sarajevo orchestra, came and played every day for twenty-two days amid the rubble and the threat of snipers armed with only his cello. 

The siege of Sarajevo stretched on for four years. More than 11,000 men, women, and children were killed. Countless more were left without home or hope. Playing music was Smailovic’s simple act of defiance. Though the war waged on around him, Smailovic continued to play for two years. He played in city streets, bomb craters, and funerals, waging his own war against the darkness. As his melodies rose from the bomb craters, he rebelled against despair. With each note, he gave hope to war-torn people. 

From 1986-1996, a different kind of war raged—my decade-long battle with alcohol and drug addiction. My sanity, self-respect, and dignity were casualties of a conflict that began in my soul long before I picked up the first drug. The damage was extensive, and the wreckage of my life spilled over onto those closest to me. The losses were catastrophic: broken trust, strained relationships, and missed opportunities. I even lost the ability to complete a coherent sentence, even when sober. Though I was alive, I was dead on the inside. 

On September 7, 1996, I woke up on my dad’s couch after a three-day binge. The house was eerily quiet except for the familiar voices of shame and dread taunting me with all I’d done in the previous 72 hours. There was nothing different about that particular morning. But for some reason, God showed up in the middle of my war-torn soul on that day and began to play a melody. 

I’d never heard anything like it before. I’ve since recognized it as the music of divine interruption, where God’s still, small voice pierces through all the noise. That morning, I heard God say, “You’re done.” It wasn’t an audible voice; it was far more unsettling than that. It came from deep within, and it was undeniable. If I hadn’t experienced it again, I might write it off as the delirious imaginings of a drug-induced stupor. But I have heard it again, not often, but no less impactful. Sometimes, tough. Other times, tender. Always merciful. And every time, it is transformative—somehow changing me at a fundamental level. 

He didn’t just show up to tell me I was done; he also gave me a new desire—the desire to get sober. Drugs had been a lifeline for more than ten years. They were all I knew and all I wanted. But as God intervened, a melody of surrender and hope for a different life began to play. He also gave me a new power—the willingness to get and stay sober. That didn’t make it easy, but it did make it possible. Sometimes, one day at a time, sometimes five minutes at a time. But his grace was always there, always sufficient for the moment. 

God isn’t the only one. Others showed up, undeterred by the rubble and chaos. They, too, acted defiantly, believing in and fighting for beauty in my life—even when I couldn’t. Their music carried me along through the pains of early sobriety. Day after day, they showed up, helping to rebuild what drugs had ravaged. 

Others like them have come since. Brothers, sisters, mentors, and friends who push against the enemies of shame, sin, and suffering that encroach on my soul. They show up in the middle of the rubble and play the melodies of the gospel over and over again in my life. Each one fights for truth, beauty, and goodness.

Remarkably, the author and creator of beauty has continued to show up and play in my life for the last 6,570 days. Some days, his music is about clearing away the rubble of past choices and present struggles. On other days, he plays the music of healing—carefully mending the tender places. And some days, he arrives to play the music of possibility—reminding me that he can still create joy and beauty in the middle of bomb craters. 

It’s been 28 years since that day in 1996. My life is delineated between then and now. It’s surreal. It isn’t easy to reconcile who I was then with who I am now. Sometimes, I forget what my life was like before getting sober. Before Jesus. Other times, I remember and shudder. And it’s all because God showed up in the bombed-out life of a drug addict and began to play the most beautiful music. 

I write about brokenness and suffering because I’ve been there, and I know that hope, healing, and freedom are possible. The Wholehearted Project and the resources I create are my resistance against the darkness.

I want to show up and play for those of you who stand amid the rubble and wonder what happened.

Those of you whose lives have been forever altered through the death of a child, parent, spouse, or sibling. 

Those of you caught in the grips of addiction to pornography, alcohol, drugs, or food.

Those of you navigating chronic pain, mental illness, or cancer (again).

Those of you whose lives have been shattered by divorce, betrayal, or abuse. 

Those of you who feel unloved, unseen, and unknown. 

Those of you who think you have nothing significant or worthwhile to offer the world around you.

Whether through the Psalms, a study on Advent, or an article to help us engage our stories, I want the music I play to point to the beauty, truth, and goodness of Jesus. Because he is the only weapon powerful enough to overcome the battles in our lives and in our souls. 

I have experienced firsthand what happens when God shows up in the middle of bomb craters and begins to play. I want to live in defiance of the darkness, reminding you that beauty can emerge from rubble, and life can be found on the other side of pain.

I don’t know what you are going through or what your life has been like. But I do know this: God still creates beauty in bomb craters. 

And I will fight to remind you (and me) of that for as long as I have breath and God allows.

Love you guys,

CC

* I first learned of the cellist of Sarajevo through Dr. Curt Thompson’s podcast, Being Known. I can’t locate which podcast it was from, but you can listen to season eight, In The Path of Oncoming Beauty, here.

** As I wrote this article, I listened to Adagio in G Minor, the song Smailovic reportedly played daily for twenty-two days. The music is as haunting and painful as it is beautiful. You can listen to a cello quartet play it here.

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Questions to Help You Explore Your Story:

1. Where in your life do you see "rubble" that seems beyond repair? How might beauty emerge from this place?

2. When have you experienced an unexpected moment of hope or beauty in a difficult situation?

3. Who are the "cellists" in your life who bring beauty and hope amid your struggles?

4. In what ways can you act "in defiance of the darkness" in your own life or the lives of others?

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