In attempting to help it stand erect again, regardless of how careful we may try to be, we will only damage it further. Our most delicate attention will be too harsh, too much of a burden for the reed's bruised stem to bear, and inadvertent as it may be, any effort we make to help the bruised reed will only hasten its inevitable collapse. Those thin streams of smoke, I learned as a boy, meant that the straw was beyond hope of rekindling. Glowing embers of a wood fire can be brought back to flames, but any attempt to blow smoking flax back to life will only scatter the lightweight ashes. All human efforts to rekindle smoking flax only hasten its end.
Some people are like bruised reeds and smoking flax.
They've been run over by life, or have burned out on its pleasures, and though not altogether gone, they are deeply and irreparably bruised in spirit. They are discouraged, sometimes bitter, and often they attempt to hide their deep hurt and helpless confusion behind a facade of self-confidence and aggression. They see others receive honor and prosperity, and they know that had life's vicissitudes moved differently, they could have had the successful business, or the happy home, or could have been a great athlete or a revered doctor or teacher. These are the ones who have had dreams shattered, who have lost a darling child, or who have been afflicted with a debilitating disease. These are the ones who labored extra hours to overcome a huge debt and suddenly were confronted with yet another financially crushing burden.