Shattered

… and put back together by grace

A porcelain bowl. Beautiful, pleasing to look at, coveted by many. Loved, cared for, the envy of all other bowls on the shelf, in the cupboard, in the house. Painted pure white, without a single blemish, it knew it was beautiful, it knew it was as perfect as a porcelain bowl could be, it knew it was loved.

Kind in its own way, willful, and a little arrogant, it lorded it over the others when it was selected for serving the most important persons. It treated the newer, younger bowls as its children, knowing they looked up to it, knowing it was a shining example to them of how to be the perfect porcelain bowl. Nothing could ever tarnish such perfection. Nothing.

Then, one day, the unthinkable happened: it broke. No fault of its own, and certainly not that of the other bowls on the shelf, and especially not the fault of its owner. It simply happened. Life happens to porcelain bowls too.

The mockery started.

“Not so high on that pedestal now that you’re broken,” they taunted. It sat there, broken into three large pieces, waiting for when the owner would throw it away. It was useless, after all. Worthless.

Hopeless.

The day finally came. The pain of being broken was unbearable; the fear of being discarded was worse. The owner picked it up, gently, gently, and wrapped it in soft cotton, then carefully placed it in a box. This didn’t feel like being thrown away, it thought.

The box opened again after a while, and it was in a potter’s workshop, quite like the one it had been created in. It wondered why, as the owner gently picked it up and handed it to the potter.

“It’s broken. You need to fix it.”

The potter picked up its pieces, studied them. He looked it over, then set it down, and went to work. Slowly, steadily, carefully, he put the pieces back together, all the while cooing assurances and soothing its pain with words.

It seemed like a long time, but finally, it was done. The pain was gone. The memory of it lingered, but the pain was gone. It looked at itself. It was no longer perfect, but it never was perfect, was it? It was scarred, heavily, but it felt stronger. Its scars looked…beautiful. Gold scars…

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