THE MENDING

Kintsugi is an ancient Japanese practice of repairing pottery. Instead of discarding a broken piece of pottery, the craftsman mends the cracks and breaks with gold, creating something beautiful and valuable out of what was once mundane. This idea struck a deep chord in my heart. I felt it was a wonderful representation of how God takes our broken lives and mends us with grace and mercy, changing us from broken to beautiful through His loving kindness

The breaking began early: small chips caused by small things. Little lies told when I was a child, harsh words spoken to me by supposed friends. Little hurts taking little pieces, breaking them off bit by bit.

Little chips grow, turning into large cracks. My foolish sin and pride causing some breaks while others come from the hands of those around me.

Tearing searing pain from pieces broken while fear of never being whole again gnaws my heart to shreds. The cracks grow wider, deeper, darker and my heart knows no hope of redemption or repair.

“No hope,” voices whisper all around me as I stare at what I’ve become. A small wretched thing: broken, smashed, and battered. So engulfed by fear that just to stand is more than I can do. No hope.

Hope. As a child hope was all around me. Abundant, free, and within easy reach. Now the thought seems as foreign as another world.

But there, in the dark cold night of the soul when all around is fear and despair. A hand it reaches, a light it flutters, a voice it whispers, “You are not alone.”

From my place, shattered on the cold stark ground, I reach, tentative and marveling, could there be someone who wants someone as broken as me? Don’t you see the cracks, the pieces fallen off, the marred self: unfixable and ruined? Hope. Fragile as a newborn cry and as warm as the first sunbeam comes creeping curling in. Again, the voice whispers, “You are not alone”. And a hand— gentle as a summer rain and as strong as the ocean tides— closes over my frail broken one. The Craftsman carries my broken pieces. Slowly, deftly, with love defying all the odds, He begins to rebuild my soul. I am remade, redeemed, restored.

The Potter takes my clay and mends me, placing piece by piece my shattered edges back. Gold, tried by fire and purged by the flames, kisses my seams and melds me into shape. Golden lines stand stark, filling and closing the wounds given from love, war, and sin. Finally, the shattered self stands whole again. I am not the same, could never be as I was before. Instead, I am something stronger now with a beauty from the brokenness.

The Lover stands before me, grace and joy pouring from His hands. The mercy given in the mending, painting me with a glory beyond any mortal means. Now this wrecked and wretched creature—once so bound by fear and shame—stands proud and strong. No glory of my own making but in the shadow of a glory so strong and true its shadow is the sun.

Cracks still form and broken bits still fall from my fragile brittle self. Fear still creeps, seeping in, to try and make a home of my aching bones and feast off my battered heart. But the golden lines of grace and mercy binding me together and anchor my soul in the one who holds me safe against all foes. His love, deeper than the skies and brighter than the stars, lingers over me. Holding me, mending me, saving me. I am broken yet mended by mercy, broken yet held together by golden strands of love.

DAUGHTER OF EVE, SHELBY BREWER

DEMETER, BROOKE BALDWIN