Not broken

One of my favorite drinking glasses got a chip in it.

It was a gift– a set of four– from my in-laws. They are the kind of people who gift well, who look and look and do their best to put not just a token in a box, but a little bit of themselves, and, along with it, evidence of their love. My mother-in-law, especially, works hard to delight with her gifting. She knows, after all, what it is to be a mom. To expend most of your energy on others. To forget that your own hair hasn’t been cut in six months even as you make plans to trim that toddler’s bangs. She knows that inescapable denial of self, and she finds ways to make sure that on special days, even a Momma cannot forget that she is still a daughter, too.

I had seen the glasses at Anthropologie– a store full of lovely things I can’t afford. They spoke to my romance with old things, and to my fascination with texture. They came in a sweet spring green. I was smitten, but no … there were other things, more needful purchases. So I moved on.

They came some time later, for a birthday, I believe. Of course, I was instantly in love with them, and found myself using them for just about everything. The perfect size, the perfect weight and oh, so lovely. Drinking water from a beautiful glass is something totally different, I have found. It elevates even something so plain. It turns a necessity into a beautiful thing. Who doesn’t need more of that?

One glass died a dramatic death at the hands of a child who will not be mentioned. Another somehow went through the dishwasher and came out permantly filmed, no longer glowing and pristine but now fogged and slightly ashen.

And then, this. A chip. An unmistakable chunk missing from the rim.

I threw it away.

Maybe this means nothing to you. Maybe you are the kind of person who routinely evaluates the objects in their life without sentiment, and has no heart pangs at watching a beloved object go into the dustbin. Maybe you have no mismatched pillowcases, no slightly bent serving spoons.

But for me, this was a revelation. I noticed the chip, dumped the water from the glass, and unceremoniously let it fall into the trash can.

I didn’t pause to reflect on its history, or my love for it. I didn’t ask myself if it could be salvaged somehow. I just let it go.

And this letting go … it felt good.

I’ve come so far in regards to things, to stuff. Moving twice in five months will clear you of much sentiment, and will refocus your eyes on the things that are worth the space they occupy in your life. I used to hold my own lack of “stuff” against what I saw around me and feel that I was on the trimmer end of possessions. After all, I’ve never owned a set of china. I only own shoes I actually wear regularly. I don’t even keep most of the books that I’d love to see sitting on my shelf. I tend to live with open hands, and to only pursue the acquisition of what I need.

And yet …

We’re moving to Nepal. That whole “this world is not my home” is here and now for us. We will be selling or giving away nearly everything, and what we do keep will primarily find itself inside a box, awaiting the some day that may or may not come until I am old and grey. I have to let go of things. I have to be happy with what finds its way into my life, with God’s grace, and to trust that, like the birds of the air, my family will be provided for.

I’ve known this. And I thought it would be easy, thought I already knew what it would be like.

I was wrong.

God stripped so much away in my heart in 2013. He laid bare for me some of the quiet places I had kept secret even from myself. He whispered, “This is preparation,” and I had no choice but to be tossed by His waves. It was, I think, the most painful year of my life to date. And that’s saying a lot. There was loss and upheaval and heartbreak. There was transition and sickness and hurt.

But I grew.

Kicking and screaming, yes. But I grew.

I have wondered how I would know that this work in me was coming to it’s point of fullness. How I’d measure the things that are unmeasurable. How I’d know when the clay of my life was beginning to finally bend to the potter’s hands.

And now I know. It was as simple as a chipped glass leaving my hands without regret. As simple as letting go and knowing that this thing did not fill a need beyond it’s intended purpose, and that I could see it leave without it hitting my heart.

I am still a work in progress. Nepal is still on the horizon. There is still work to be done. But I am willing, and He is working. I am not broken. Instead, I am repurposed … for His glory.