You’re shattered. Your clay splinters litter the ground, and the roses that sat so tall and proud in the safety of your fragranced water lay wilting on the floor.
Did I push you? Did I pull? Do I bear responsibility for your scattered shards?
I want to pick you up and cradle you to myself–every last piece of you. But your jagged edges bite at my hands and I don’t know how to hold you. I don’t know how to help.
But, your emptiness is laid bare and I want to cover you.
I know you can’t do it on your own. You can’t put yourself back together. You are many things, my love, but independence will kill you.
You are a vase. A beautiful, broken vase. And I weep at my inadequacies. At my inability to understand your make-up.
Another thing I know: I can’t do it–I can’t fix you. I don’t know how.
But I can stay by your side while He does. While the potter works.
He’s the One who created you. The only one who knows your form and your soul well enough to mend you.
The only one who’s already bled for your pain.
If you’ll let Him, He’ll form you into something better. Something stronger that knows what it is to be broken.
I know, because He’s done it for me.
He’ll stand you on a firm foundation. And fill you again and again.
He’ll pour into you until at last you are able to sustain a new bouquet.
New life. New joy. New beginning.
You. Broken you.
Better and stronger.
The potter’s own, unique creation. Mended and whole.
That you–a vessel of honor–would display His beauty to the world.
So I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel. But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him. –Jeremiah 18:3, 4