Tale of a Broken Pot

The broken pot sits on the shelf among countless others. There is a large crack through her base from the time she was dropped, a gaping hole in her side from the day she rolled off the wooden table and fell to the hard ground. She is chipped and punctured and scraped.

Every day, she squirms as close as possible to the wall and angles herself so only the most whole part shows. The gaping hole to the wall, the jagged crack to the shelf. Now the other pots won't see her brokenness. Now the Potter won't see her - He'll forget and let her be, right? Safe, right?

All the other pots are radiant. They're shiny and beautiful. If they could see, surely they would laugh, mock her, snub her, shove her off the shelf to be dashed into countless fragments on the cold, stone floor.

The pots around her worry. She stays aloof. She's hard, solid, unyielding. "What's wrong? Why are you hiding back there?" they gently inquire.

"Nothing. Why would anything be wrong? I'm fine. Everything's alright."

She is made keenly aware by their questions of the chips, scratches, and holes in even her most whole side. She twists and turns, trying to position herself so the light and shadows conceal them as completely as possible.

One day as she hides in the dark corner, she hears the purposeful steps of the Potter. She shrinks back as far as possible and hopes He will pass over her and take a different pot - a radiant pot from the front of the shelf. Surely that is what He wants.

But today is not like other days. He calls her name and she trembles violently. He begins to reach for her and she desperately fights to become one with the wall, but to no avail. She is afraid. What will the Potter do with her? Surely a broken pot is detestable to Him. Every day she watches Him put beautiful, new, radiant pots on the shelf. She dare not think about what is coming. Not sitting here in His strong hands. The One who makes such glorious vessels must utterly despise such a disgrace as herself.

But as He gently cradles her in His hands, He whispers, "Remember." And she does. She remembers the day she lay empty, broken, abandoned, dirty on the ground. He knelt in the dirt by her side and picked her up, even as He was scraped and abused by her jagged, broken pieces. That day, He washed her with His tears and carried her to His own house, where He watched over her day after day.

He knows her thoughts. "Why are you ashamed? Why are you afraid? I love you. I brought you into my own house. You are safe and secure and accepted."

A trembling whisper."I don't know"

"I did something else the day I took you in. You've forgotten. Let me show you."
He begins to turn the broken, little pot in His hands and she fights and screams and kicks. "No! No! Don't do that! It's broken! It's ugly!"

All of a sudden, she's facing a mirror and it's so incredibly bright, she can barely stand to look at it. "Ack! What is that?!?!" she cries and averts her eyes.

"Look," He urges. "Look."

Slowly, ever so slowly, she turns her gaze upon the shining mirror and... what is that? She knows that scar. Yes, and that crack. And that chip. And that... gaping hole! "But how... ?"

"You're beautiful," He sings.

And it all floods back. He picked her up, He bore her abuse, He washed her with His own tears, He brought her into His own home, and then. Then He put a great treasure inside of her, a shining treasure of indescribable worth.

She remembers. She had sat in His hand that day and marveled at its splendor. It was perfect. And He had given it to her! She had known that day that she was beautiful because the shining treasure within made her so.

"Who told you that you were ugly? Who made you ashamed of your brokenness? It's through your brokenness that the great treasure shines through. Every day you hid your cracks and holes, you tried to hide the glory, the indescribable beauty I gave you to hold within."

There lay the truth. Her best attempt to hide her ugliness had never made her beautiful. It had hidden the one thing that could make her beautiful.

As she stared intently at her reflection, she saw she was more broken than she ever imagined... but she was also more beautiful than she ever could have dreamed.

"Forgive me. Break my pride. You make this little broken pot beautiful."

"No more hiding, you beautiful, little pot. Let your light shine before men."

Hide-and-Seek

You're lying in the dirt under the prickly leaves of a bush in the backyard. The torrential rain is pouring down and the soft dirt is quickly turning to oozing mud. Something brushes past your arm, sending a shiver up your spine. Spider! You stifle a scream, flail frantically looking for a stick and flick it far away - or so you hope. But then there's another hanging only inches from your face. The flashlight of someone looking for you passes by every once in awhile, stinging and blinding your eyes that have adjusted to the thick blackness. A voice calls, "Where are you, child? Why are you hiding?". You don't dare answer, certain you will be rejected and condemned if the voice discovers where you've been hiding and what a mess you are. Your heart races and your whole body shakes every time you hear footsteps disturb the eerie silence. Is it the seeker or a wanted criminal? You most certainly don't want to be found, but you would rather face the stinging, blinding flashlight and hear your name called, even condemningly, than be carried off deeper into the night.

Fear takes hold and you have to act, so you crawl out from your dingy hiding place and hesitatingly present yourself to the seeker. Matted hair, skin scratched by thorns, clothes caked with mud and torn by jagged rocks. You stand there blinded by comforting light as the pain of leaving the thorny bush's cold embrace slowly eases. You're ashamed to stand there in such a deplorable state. You say, "This is where I've been hiding. It's cold, wet, dirty, painful, and frightening. I thought hiding there was a good idea, but I realize, now, it wasn't. I want to go inside now." Love says, "I'm so glad you came out. I've been waiting for you a long time. Come get warm, dry, and clean. It's safe and comfortable inside."

But then, "It won't be easy to get clean, warm, and dry," you think. "I'm such a mess. Cleaning these scratches will hurt. No, I'd better not go inside." You've forgotten how awful it was in your hiding place and all about your fear of the wanted criminal. So you turn around and scramble back under the thorny bush. Back to the mud, cold, spiders, wet, and black of night.

But... you just don't do that when you're playing hide-and-seek. You can't. Why? Because you just told the seeker where you are hiding. You can't hide anymore! Your ugly has been brought into the light. Love saw it and love also saw when you went back into hiding. And love doesn't let you hide because of your ugly without a hard fight. Love will fight for you to go inside and be made warm and dry, clean and healed, safe and comfortable.

Love runs after you to your hiding place and says, "Beloved, I know where you are. Hiding will only hurt you more. I long for you to be made whole. Please, beloved. Come out. Come inside the house with me."

You say to yourself like you did before, "If I just wait, the spiders and wanted criminal will go away. I'll become clean and dry and warm, eventually. These scratches will heal. If I leave my hiding place, I'll be hated and condemned. Yes, I'll just wait here and everything will get better, and then I'll come out and no one will ever know I was cold and dirty and wet and scared and scratched. Everything will be fine if I just stay."

It's a lie. A blatant one, really, but you can't see it for what it is. If you lie in the mud, how will you get clean? If you remain in the prickly embrace of thorns, how will your scratches heal?  If you stay outside in the cold and rain, how will you get warm and dry? If you stay outside in the dark, how will you be safe from spiders and criminals on the loose? The truth is, staying in hiding will only make you more dirty, more cold and wet, more wounded, more scared, and more endangered.

Love is waiting with outstretched arms. Love is fighting for you. Love is yearning for you. Love won't condemn you. Love won't reject you. Love will make you whole. 

You don't have to hide. Run back to love.

The Conductor

His hand guides the baton gliding through the air in steady strokes. 1-2-3, 1-2-3.  He breathes, I breathe with him.  He moves, I move with him.  It’s a dance.  Can you feel it?  We all move and breathe as one and the music flows through.  There is a connection unlike any other between people through whom music washes.  Everything you are is invested in the other musicians and in letting the music free.  How many times has a conductor said, “You must play as one person.  You must sound like one instrument.”?  I couldn’t possibly count.  Complete unison is impossible to accomplish without the connection.  The musicians speak silently, saying, “Come, let’s build the intensity – the storm is coming.  Softly, softly now – don’t wake the children sleeping.  Grieve the loss.  Rejoice in the triumph.  Climb the mountain with me.” 

And the conductor leads.  He gently guides.  He feels the music’s excitement and knows to quicken the tempo – he shows us and we follow.  The music yearns to be cherished and held until the last possible moment.  He feels it, he shows us, and we follow.

This conductor, though, is more than he seems.  The podium is only half of his station.  Yes, he is much more.  He is the composer.  The music is a song that sprang from his soul.  It is a part of him, he knows it inside out.  He knows before it swells like the waves and when it will ease to a gentle lapping along the shore.  Nothing about it surprises him.  He needs no score to conduct.  Surely the definitive black marks on the page would only inhibit the music, hold it back from its full potential.  How could the techniques and dynamics denoted express all that the music is?  One can play a piece perfectly, obeying the command of every masterfully placed accent and tempo marking, but if the ink on the page is all you see, the music is dead.  It cannot live and flow freely.  No one can conduct the music like the one who first set it free.

Because the music belongs to him, the musicians follow without question.  He may decide to slow unexpectedly or repeat a section played before while the audience listens intently, held in rapt attention.  When he directs an unexpected change, it doesn’t always make sense.  Sometimes, the musicians don’t understand why.  But they know that he is their leader, the music is his, and he knows what he is doing.  And so, when the musicians understand that their conductor is also the composer, they trust and they follow, and the music flows through. 

This is the key.  The musicians must know their conductor.  They have to learn how he conducts.  What is that wave of his hand?  What does it mean when his right eyebrow arches slightly?  As we learn, we make mistakes.  He moves his hand and it looks to us like a cutoff so we arrest the movement, but he was only asking the violas to play out a little more.  When we make music together, I can’t bury my head in the written music.  How will I know what the conductor is doing?  What if he signals a cutoff, repeat, decrescendo, accelerando?  How will I know?  I can only ascertain his movements, then, from the sound of the orchestra.  And if he directs a cutoff and I’m not watching, I’ll certainly hear it, but it will be too late for me to stop with all the rest. 

As I play, I see him always before me.  I can trace the path of his gliding baton.  Often, that is enough to get by.  The music will survive.  But, when a difficult passage comes along, it’s easy to lose sight of the conductor – to stare fixedly at the notes that may easily cause you to stumble.  Then what?  You have shut out the only person truly able to guide you through it, to let the music continue to flow. 

Sometimes, a musician becomes filled with pride.  They croon within, “I’m the one who really knows how the music goes.  I don’t need a conductor, I can set it free on my own.”  What then?  That pride causes discord as its intents collide with the music in its purest form.  It clouds and confuses the song of the composer’s heart, and the beauty of the dance, following the lead, is lost.

Simply being aware of his movement out of the corner of one’s eye is often sufficient to keep the music alive, but surely we desire the music to thrive.  When a transition comes, peripheral vision does not suffice.  At that time, the musicians must fix their eyes on the conductor and drink in every movement.  Can they see the nod of his head, the expression on his face, out of the corner of their eyes?  Certainly not.  Music is played most beautifully when the musicians have practiced well with their conductor.  They know the movement of the music and are able to watch their conductor through every phrase.  Can you feel his heartbeat if you are too caught up in the notes in front of you to hold him in your gaze?  If the music is the song of his heart, how can you set it free without his guidance?  The musicians who spend time with their conductor build a deep relationship with him and the musicians know their conductor will lead them through the music, and even the most difficult parts will be made beautiful.  They trust him because he is the composer, also, and he knows what is done, what is being brought into being, and what is to come.  The reward of knowing and following the conductor is the beauty of the music set free together.  And… every now and then when your gaze is fixed on him, his eyes meet yours and nothing in the world can compare to the joy and affirmation in his eyes when you have followed well.    

 

All He Is > All I Wish For

I wish I could be faithful and that my love were steadfast...
but I'm thankful that He is always faithful and His steadfast love pursues me anyway.

I wish everyone who has poured into my life could always be close to me...
but I'm thankful that God blessed me through them and He is always with me AND He will finish the work He began in me, even if they're not nearby.

I wish life could be easy, sweet, and comfortable...
but I'm thankful for the strife, bitter tears, and pain because I know He is refining me, our hardships help us relate to others, these things push me to press in to Him, and He works all things for His glory and my good. Always.

I wish I could go to Moody and BCOM and the Honor Academy and Impact ME and everywhere else my sisters are going next year.  Every place.  At the same time.  Because then I could be with all of them...
but I'm thankful that His plan is perfect, He will remain with each of us, and He is more than enough.

I wish time differences didn't exist and separating distances could be freely spanned in seconds...
but I'm thankful that the Lord gave me friends - from Seattle, Dallas, South Dakota, Pennsylvania, Florida, Johannesburg, Zambia, Seoul, and so many other places - to be with for certain seasons; for letters, cell phones, and the internet; and that His plan is perfect.

I wish I knew how everyone I met in Africa is doing - Lesogo, Maggie, Abdul, Prudence, Piason, and all the others - and that I could be there to encourage them, pray with them, and walk through life with them...
but I'm thankful that prayer spans thousands of miles, He knew them before they came into being, He loves them with an everlasting love, and He has a perfect plan for each of them. 

I wish I didn't break His heart so often...
but I'm thankful that His love is steadfast and His power is made perfect in weakness.

I wish sin were never part of human existence...
but I'm thankful for the cross and God's astounding grace.

I wish I had all the answers to my questions and everyone else's...
but I'm thankful that in His abounding grace, God has revealed His character to us, and He is good and just and holy and faithful, His love endures forever, and He does all things well.

I wish I knew what tomorrow holds and every day after...
but I'm thankful that the Lord knows all things, His power is absolute, and He cares for me.

Wow.  He is so good.  He deserves more than all the praise we could ever give.  Imagine how much more we would praise Him if we set our eyes on all He is and all He has done for us rather than mourning what we do not have.  My foolish heart wears sackcloth and ashes too often, passing over the joy He gives.  We have so much to be thankful for.  If I wish for something I do not have, I am missing something greater that He is to me.  He is far more than enough to satisfy each need.

One night in South Africa, our Project Director asked us to think of all the good things that happened that day and thank God for them.  And then she said, "If you can't think of anything good that happened today, remember the cross."  See, there is always at least one thing to be thankful for. If we have nothing - if we lay dying with no friends, no family, no possessions, no wealth, no happy memories, no great accomplishments, no recognition - we should yet remember the cross, and that alone would still be enough to occupy our every word and thought with thanksgiving, if we set our eyes not on what we do not have, but on all He is.

For this and much more, I thank Him.  All He is > All I wish for.  Always.

"I give thanks to you, O Lord my God, with my whole heart,
and I will glorify your name forever.
For great is your steadfast love toward me;
you have delivered my soul from the depths of Sheol."
~ Psalm 86:12-13

What are you thankful for?  What has He done for you?

Africa #10 ~ Mulungu/Muzungu Anikonda? ... Both.

Twelve beautiful Zambian children are lined up for lunch. "Mulungu anikonda, mulungu anikonda," they chant. Big smiles. Yes, He loves each of you more deeply than you can ever know. Gideon's face leans out of line. Mischievous smile. "Muzungu anikonda, muzungu anikonda." He leads and the others grin and make the small change in their joyful chant. Mind racing. What?? Muzungu means "white person" in Nyanja. After speaking Zulu for a month in South Africa, I am bound to confuse mulungu and muzungu every once in awhile. Mulungu means "white person" in Zulu, but "God" in Nyanja. This is your language, though! How did you get them confused?
... "Ohhhh!!" They mean I love them. Oops, that was obvious. "Yes! Nikukonda! I love you, too!" I earnestly and giddily blurt.

This is possibly my favorite Camp Hope memory. In a situation with a fairly formidable language barrier, age gap, and cultural contrast, one wonders how much gets across. Do they understand? Do they believe what they hear? Do they see through the stories in the Bible and their experiences that God loves them? Do they know that I love them? Or is this all for nothing? I saw in their faces that my twelve twelve-year-olds really understood that their Creator, the Almighty God, their Father, loves them. That in itself was more than enough to make my heart leap for joy. Then they also let me know that they know I love them, too. Yes, this strange muzungu who butchers phrases in Nyanja and songs in Bemba, who thinks it's hot when all of you are freezing, who sings while we walk and march and dance and run until she has no breath left to make a sound... yes. She loves you. I love each of you very much.

Africa #9 ~ Grace

Once, there was a girl standing on a lawn in South Africa, her eyes welling up with tears she tried desperately to blink away. But then the young woman she was training with saw the pools and moved to reassure her. And then the pools turned to waterfalls and the suppressed sobs bubbled up out of her throat. Unexpectedly, a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder from behind, that drew her in to cradle her head in a mass of lovely, dark, curly hair. And then a sincere face and a purposeful voice that said, "Emily, people like you are the reason I come on these trips." You see, that girl was afraid of failure. That girl was unaware of her value and use. That girl was insecure and believed those watchful, loving eyes were judging her for what she perceived as failure. That girl desperately thirsted for love and affirmation. That girl believed it should never be given to her.

But there was that voice, telling her all those things were lies. That girl was a mess, but, "People like you are the reason I come on these trips." Because that girl doesn't have to be a mess forever. That girl can become, be made, beautiful.

It makes me think of Christ. I may be afraid, unaware, insecure and desperate, believing God is condemning me and agreeing so wholeheartedly with the basis of that condemnation that part of me doesn't want to be loved at all... but Christ says, "People like you are the reason I came."
People like you, friends, are the reason He came. None of your dark, nasty, gritty, disgusting, struggle bus, embarrassing, dirty muck can ever change that. Ever.

That's grace.

But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
- Romans 5:8

Africa #8 ~ Video

I somehow forgot I could post a video here!  Now that I remember, here is the video I put together to give all of you a glimpse into everything that happened while I was in South Africa and Zambia for two months.  I did show it at my sharing time at CCF and posted it in the facebook group, but I wanted to be sure everyone who wanted to saw it.  I hope you enjoy it :)

 

 

As always, questions and comments are welcome :)