The clay pot is sealed and buried in the middle of the beaten down clay dirt floor. It is all they have. There is no bank to invest it in. There is no portfolio, no 401K. It is all they have and they pray they will not need it anytime soon. But they know if they need it, they can access it, digging it up, and breaking the clay pot that it resides in.
I am not sure if anyone has ever done a “gospel according to the clay pot that houses the family treasure.” What would it say if it could talk? Perhaps it would say, “My greatest purpose is not yet realized! I will have to be busted and broken for you to get at what I am holding!” Maybe it would echo, “I am made by the hands of a great potter, as are you, and my purpose will never be realized until I am broken, just like you.” But there is that inference right there in the holy writ. Paul talked about it as he dealt with his own brokeness. It was as if he understood that to be fully human and fully purposeful is realized only when we are broken.
It is a novel concept, isn’t it? In a society of hunks and hormones, of strength and stamina, we are given the illustration by Paul that we are a pot, formed by a great potter,and that found inside of us is a treasure, which is released and given by only being broken. Unexpected illness, unexplained death, hopes destroyed, grieving, heart-wrenching, cancer filled; broken!
It is T-minus 11 days and I pray I have done this special art piece the justice it deserves. It will be surrounded at the time of it’s presentation by hundreds of art pieces that have been completed by artists whose health was in no way compromised and they were able to spend months and years on some of them, concentrating with no distractions, each stroke of the hand having nothing in the way but his or her own imagination. I will be compared to each of them accordingly with so few having a faint clue to the person behind the creation of this flying wood duck that I have called, “Beaver Pond Woody”.
I have yet to know why in the world I chose to do of all ducks, a flying one and on top of that, the most colorful of all ducks, all complicated with the fact that the artist doing this piece is “all broke up.” My day begins by placing my brain in gear for the pain that will momentarily run throughout my body. Bed is my good friend and enemy, all wrapped up in one. I start by massaging my hands, rubbing my neck, massaging my back, trying to get up enough strength to stand, grabbing door facings, an ironing board, anything that will help me to start. Each breath and every heartbeat shoots a signal to my brain that I am not at my best because I am broken.
I think of the work that lies before me for this day. I think of my children where each day brings their own set of stressors and I think about the person God has given me to walk with, in the midst of it all and I pray. For all that I don’t understand and all that awaits and the reasoning beyond my own understanding of pain and suffering, I stop and pray for one thing: that the treasure that is found inside of this broken pot will be of value to the brokenness of our own world.