Saturday, June 14, 2008

Take a cracked vase and smash it on the floor.
It will shatter.
Take a brittle bone and try to bend it.
It will break.
Try to pour water into a shattered vase.
Try walking on a broken leg.

You'll have a mess.

The vase won't thank you for the broken pieces.
The leg won't thank you for the humiliation.

Is there any redemption here?
Any reconciliation between creator and creation?
Any hope?

It's as though I, a cracked vase, see a beautiful flower across the room, and I so badly want to give it a chance to use me, to fill me, to help me fulfill my purpose, and to provide for its beauty.
There's so much hope wrapped up in that one little flower.  It's a delicate prospect.  I don't want to kill it.
What if I can't hold enough water to keep the flower alive?
And it's petals wither and lose their color?
OR what if the florist sees fit to keep me on the shelf with no higher purpose than to serve as an example of what not to be, a broken vessel?
Am I a pot in the hands of an angry potter--a vase rejected by the florist and unfit for the flower?  
I refuse to believe this of my God and yet it's all I have believed about myself.  

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