Anchor

Breathe. Inhale... exhale.  I am alive.

The first fragile snowflake falls in December.
A field of flowers swaying in a spring breeze.
A star shoots past the moon on a warm summer night.
The low roll of thunder when a storm begins.
A broken pot that sits on the shelf in an old potter's home.

I see my Savior in all these things-- my Anchor -- but not in the broken pot.
You see, the broken pot is one that simply sits on a wooden shelf.  It collects dust.
It is known for its brokenness and it does not serve a purpose.
It does not know why the potter keeps it. 

But the potter knows.
The potter has never forgotten the pot.

I am the broken pot.
I sit on a shelf collecting dust.
I am helpless, hopeless.  I cannot serve my purpose.  Nor any purpose.

But one day, the potter takes me from my shelf. 
My shattered edges shift and crumble.  It hurts.
The potter with gentle hands and loving fingers takes on broken piece
and restores it to its place.
Then he takes another, and another.
I feel renewed.

And then he stops.  Why? Am I not good enough?
I must not be worthy of his time and efforts.  I understand.

Then he does the strangest thing.
He places a candle in me.
I can't help but laugh to myself as it sits there, gathering dust with me.
Great, I can't do anything but allow others to serve no purpose too.
Why would the potter do this?

He puts me on a table in the middle of the room. 
I sit there for a long while as I watch the sun begin to set outside the window.
What beautiful light it brought to the room.

I am inadequate, a broken mess.
I'm sorry.  I have no use, I cannot bring anything to offer the world.
I have failed the potter.

Time passes.
Inhale... exhale.
I am still breathing. 
The moon emerges in the night sky, full and bright.
Peepers and crickets sing their harmonious lullaby. 
This is all I have.
I feel as though I could take my last breath and leave this world of beauty.

The potter looks at me.
He goes from the room and returns with a match.
I wish he would just throw me from the table.
But he lights the match. 
The candle is lit.  I look around the room.

Light pours from my cracks and fills everything with warm candlelight.
I can't help but breathe in the sweet aroma.
The potter gazes at me with love in his eyes.
He says to me,
"I made you beautiful. I knew your brokenness,
but see how my love has poured through your cracks and
turned your dust into glory."

Breathe. Inhale... exhale.
A broken pot.
That's me.  Broken.  Not useless.
Overcome by love. Created for beauty.
Glorifying my Savior.
I am a broken pit, but that is okay.
That is beautiful when I am in the loving embrace of the potter.