They distort my smooth finish. They distract from my flowing curves. They draw attention away from the purpose for which I was made. To some they devalue me.On the day I fell, in the time it took for me to roll off the table and hit the floor, I imagined the end had come. My usefulness was over. All that was left was for the broom to whisk me into the dust pan and from the dust pan deposited into the trash can. A lot can go through your mind in a short space of time.
But instead of the briskly strokes of the coarse straw, gentle hands carefully picked up each broken piece and placed me again on the table. I was complete but undone. Glue was applied to my jagged edges and meaningless fragments rejoined to make me whole again.Soon after the glue set, I was back enhancing the table, holding the flowers, beautifying the moment, but now there is more. Now I live as a testimony of how brokenness can be healed, how regret can be rescued, how usefulness can be restored. Each crack tells the story.
I will never be pristine again. Who needs pristine when you can be used to tell others the answer to the prayer for wholeness. I show the scars of grace, the evidence of mercy, the glue of love that holds me together. And in this I will rejoice!
My broken life demonstrates the compassion and purpose of One who declares me worth the effort it took for restoration. My cracks are not a reflection of my faults. They are a message of hope to all who are shattered.