This is a bit different from my usual write-ups. It is an allegory of sin, brokenness, and restoration, inspired by these two verses:
“But now, O LORD, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand.” – Isaiah 64:8 (ESV)
“He heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds.” – Psalm 147:3 (ESV)

The fall
I want to stop it… I reach out to, but time is not my friend.
Porcelain falls faster than I can bend, than my hands can move.
I watch the fall in utter helplessness.
The sound of shattering permeating the silence.
My fingers frozen in their uselessness.
My mind replays the fall in slow motion…
A cruel trick, as the fall was far from slow.

I could look at it, but not touch it. Yet I did.
I wasn’t to pick it up, yet I did. I wasn’t to hold it, yet I did.
I knew, I was told, I saw the sign. In my folly, I ignored all.
You say I was tempting fate, but my intentions were not so.

I admired it from far, the stunning Ancient Chinese porcelain bowl.
But the intricate detail beckoned me… I needed a closer look.
A closer look was supposed to bring content. Why didn’t it?
I yearned for more… Just a touch.

My eyes had savoured it, my fingers wanted a turn.
I had to touch the embossed design. I needed to.
It would only take a second.
The bowl, sitting on the shelf in all its flawless glory, beckoned.

I reached out… I touched it… I yearned for more.
My fingers longed to trace the intricate pattern, the butterfly in flight, the weathered roughness of the rocks, the petals of the lavender blossoms, the blades of grass.
So I let them.
It was still a touch, just a longer one, I convinced myself.

But my desire was like a bottle with a hole, no matter how much I poured in, I could not fill it up.
“What was the pattern on the other side? How much did it weigh?”
“What would it be like to hold an object valued at thousands of pounds?” I wondered.
If only I could just hold it, I would know.
No one could see me, no one would know.

With great care, I lifted it, drawing it closer to me.
I caressed the details, my fingers marvelling as they moved.
I almost whistled. It truly was a thing of beauty.
So delicate, yet so resilient…surviving for hundreds of years.
One more second, and it would be safely back in its place.

I was painstaking as I lifted it towards the shelf.
Then I heard a sound. I gasped.
That’s when it happened.
When my hands disobeyed my intentions and let go.
SMASH!

BROKEN!
Numb, shocked, petrified.
I bent down slowly…to assess the damage, or to keep my knees from buckling?
I picked up the pieces my eyes could see.
Large, medium, small.
Broken pieces, jagged edges.

What was I going to do with them?
I was trembling. I could never afford to replace it.
Why did I ever go near it? What possessed me?
I could not tell anyone. I had disobeyed the warning.
I was scared of the consequences, awash with shame.

But it was too late. I had been seen.
Of course I would be seen, what was I thinking?
I wanted to express how sorry I was, how utterly utterly sorry, how much I regretted my actions.
But all that came out of me was tears, a steady stream.
“I will fix it”, I managed to murmur. I really did mean to. I wanted to.
“How?”
“I don’t know, but I can try.”
Silence.

I tried to fix the broken pieces myself. Over and over.
But it was no use.
I wanted to hide the flaws, the fractures, the cracks, but I could not.
My attempts were pathetic, hopeless, a failure.
The broken pieces a constant reminder of my folly.
Where there was desire, shame took over.
But the cup of desire could not be filled, yet the cup of shame was running over.

A stunning piece ruined.
Beauty was now brokenness.
Once it had brought joy, now it evoked sorrow.
Was I to give up? To throw it away?
The thought made my chest tighten, but there was no hope. Or was there?

The Potter. I had heard of him.
But, I was ashamed of my folly. I could not involve anyone else.
It was my mistake, I had to fix it. I needed to.
But hadn’t I tried? And hadn’t I failed?
I had to go to The Potter. I could see no better option.

“Help!” I cried.
“I tried. I can’t do it on my own. Forgive my folly. Please help me!”
He stretched out his hands, his palms cupped like the bowls lining his shelves.
“Give the pieces to me”.

This time, I obeyed.
He inspected the pieces… no condemnation in his eyes, only wonder.
“Beautiful” he said.
“It was”, I whispered.
“It still is”, he whispered back.

He set to work.
Kintsugi it was called.
My attempts to fix it made his task harder.
But he cleaned the pieces without judgement.
Then he prepared the binder.
He started with the small pieces, moving gradually to the bigger ones.
He did not hide the flaws, the fractures, like I tried to.
He emphasised them instead, lavishly brushing the fractured edges with his lustrous gold binder.

I watched in amazement, day in day out.
Some days were days of waiting, some days were days of working.
It was a long process, but he was meticulous.
“It is important to get even the seemingly little things right”, he said.
All I could do was wait with patience and watch the Master at work.
His brow furrowed in concentration, His eyes transfixed.
His brush gentle on the edges, His hands steady as a surgeon.
With dedication and laser-like focus, like it was the most important job ever.

When he finally finished, he held it up to the light.
Leaving me amazed, astonished, awestruck.
It was even more stunning than before!
How was that possible? How could it be?
The contrast between shimmering gold lines and brilliant white lured your attention instantly.
The randomness of the fault lines… like the intentional work of an accomplished artist.
The embossed design, the delicate brushes of gold… an exquisite combination.
How could brokenness produce such beauty?

Never in a million years could I have achieved this beauty by myself.
Joy bubbled up inside me, rising till it poured out.
“Thank you”, I mouthed.
“Thank you”, I whispered.
” Thank you”, I voiced.
“Thank you!”, I screamed.

He smiled at me, the pleasure on his face shining through.
“Anytime. Anytime at all. It was a joy to work on. It always is”.