Broken Pottery
The morning mist is swirling, thick, opaque, like the hem of a woman’s gown. It swirls as I walk through it, the air becoming heavy and wet. I stop, taking a moment to feel what life is offering at the moment.
Life feels heavy, like the mist I am walking in.
Pain is everywhere.
I want to get away from it.
Or stay in the mist, and as the cloud lifts, so do I.
My human body wants to run until the pain drops away like unraveling threads flying out behind me, tangling onto trees and bushes, unraveling until it’s all shed in the dirt.
But that is not going to happen.
A friend’s days old baby will still be dead, leaving her parents and siblings crushed.
Another friend spilled out on the alter, broken, empty, waiting for healing.
Children in Haiti are coping with the sins of a man professing Christ. His family suffering terribly. No winners!
A sister in Christ is shattered, bleeding out on the ground.
The world is a place of brokenness. Like sharp shards of pottery spread all over the ground. The mess is ugly and raw.
Those sharp shards have been my pottery, thrown into the dirt, my edges crumbled, my contents spilled out in a vulnerable mass.
You can tiptoe and sweep aside if you do not wish to get cut. Or you can stay, and mourn with those who mourn.
I used to be strong, my strength was admirable in how I pulled together my seams, and only broke my pottery in small, secret places.
Until one day, I was running, my pottery held tightly in my hands, and I tripped, fell and everything broke.
My friends saw it, my family saw it, everyone heard it smash, everyone knew what happened, and for once I didn’t have the strength I needed to smile and assure everyone I was ok.
I was not ok. My husband was not ok. My children were not ok. We wanted the baby that we had lost, and we didn’t want to mark on our little chart, the number fourteen.
Fourteen perfect pottery jars smashed.
Fourteen babies given back to our God.
The pain was too great for some of my friends. My pain poured out onto them, and they desperately pulled away. Their words bit, and I ended up having to comfort them, saying anything to stop the torrent of words coming from their mouths.
I withdrew, being “ok” to everyone except a few trusted friends.
One friend told me to tune out all those words. Words that seemed wise, but brought no peace.
Another friend told me its ok to weep, pouring your tears out on the alter of sacrifice. For my Jesus those tears are worthy.
Those who have been the most broken,sent me daily messages of care and laughter.
One friend sent me a picture of all her sheep looking into the camera from the top down, with the words “just checking in to see how you are doing”. I threw my head back and belly laughed.
A few cards trickled in, a lovely necklace commemorating my babies taken home, too soon, but right on time.
My most prized possession brought to me in a little wrapped package. Holy Spirit sanctioned.
You see, she didn’t know that I shouted again and again “God you are GOOD”.
I shouted it angrily.
I whispered it brokenly.
I stated it firmly.
I repeated it over and over and over.
Even if you take this baby, you are good.
Even if your answer is “no”, you are good
She sat down to paint something for me, and Holy Spirit brought her words.
I cried when I unwrapped the paper and read the words. “You love me” I said in wonder to my Father. “You see me, and you care”.
“Thank you for breaking my pottery, because you are all the way good and what will come out of this loss, will be tremendous gain”.
I worship.
He also sees you, your broken pottery, the shattered pieces dropping from your helpless fingers as you desperately try to fit them together.
Just stop, let it be.
Rest.
Leave the pieces there on the ground. Rejoice, you are broken today, and you weep.
Tomorrow, soon,you will be restored to life, your weeping exchanged for joy.
You are not forgotten or abandoned. You are loved more furiously then your earthly mind can imagine.
Everything is for your good, and his grace is entirely sufficient. These are promises you can push back against like a brick wall.
His words, not mine.
If your pottery is broken, let me comfort you.
“I will extol you, O Lord, for you have drawn me up
and have not let my foes rejoice over me.
2 O Lord my God, I cried to you for help,
and you have healed me.
3 O Lord, you have brought up my soul from Sheol;
you restored me to life from among those who go down to the pit.[a]
4 Sing praises to the Lord, O you his saints,
and give thanks to his holy name.[b]
5 For his anger is but for a moment,
and his favor is for a lifetime.[c]
Weeping may tarry for the night,
but joy comes with the morning.
6 As for me, I said in my prosperity,
“I shall never be moved.”
7 By your favor, O Lord,
you made my mountain stand strong;
you hid your face;
I was dismayed.
8 To you, O Lord, I cry,
and to the Lord I plead for mercy:
9 “What profit is there in my death,[d]
if I go down to the pit?[e]
Will the dust praise you?
Will it tell of your faithfulness?
10 Hear, O Lord, and be merciful to me!
O Lord, be my helper!”
11 You have turned for me my mourning into dancing;
you have loosed my sackcloth
and clothed me with gladness,
12 that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever!
”