Shards in the basket

It was the last Sunday school class, and I decided to go out with a bang. We’d been studying my novel, Burning Faith, and I decided to have the class do what the characters in the novel do when beginning to rebuild the church: think in new ways.

On the table were lumps of clay, ceramic shards, and colorful pens. As we listened to a song, participants were invited to “play” with whichever element they wanted. With clay in their hands, they were asked to consider what it takes to be remolded. Arranging ceramic shards, they were asked to consider the pieces of their lives and how they can become art. The pens were an invitation to draw whatever their heart wanted. The adults around the table became children again, and I marveled at where their souls led them.

As I cleaned up, I was particularly touched by one person’s work. She constructed a basket out of clay and placed shards in it. There was something tender about it, something profound as well. I felt as if I understood what she was trying to say, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

My life is a collection of pieces. There are bright and shiny pieces, and darker ones, as well. There are things of which I am proud, and others of which I’m ashamed, with a many pieces in between. Too often, I’ve tried to pick and choose which pieces I carry, but I’ve slowly come to understand what the wisest among us have said: they all belong.

Into the basket I carry with me every day, I need to tenderly place the joys and sorrows, my accomplishments and failures. I’ll never know when I’ll need to use them to make art. The important thing is to place them in the basket. God will take care of the rest.