I have always had this notion that I will serve kings. That I will adorn their castles with my beauty, and their halls will be filled with fragrance from exquisite flowers I will bear.
The stinking bridge and the beggar’s makeshift shelter slapped me out of this delusion.
Castles are not for ugly cracked pots like me.
The beggar made a good use of me.
I became an urn for the alms he would receive during the day, and the illegal money he would gain from his night escapades. I came to learn that my owner was a small-time robber. I just could not believe my luck.
We had a lovely time together, so lovely that time and again he would curse my ‘stupid crack’ for making him lose a few coins. Could not blame him though, I hated the crack myself.
My days with the beggar-slash-thief did not last long enough for me to make a book out of it. He was trying to run from his still sleeping victim when a speeding black automobile came and hit him. I fell from his grip and my descent to the ground worsened my crack.
I saw some of my broken pieces beside me that night. Yes they were hard to look at, but even harder was accepting the fact that I could never take them back. That I would never be whole again…
But then again, I have never really been whole. I was cracked from the very beginning, so why mope? Maybe that’s just how a pot like me is supposed to live – to be broken repeatedly until all the pieces were gone…
That night, the man driving the automobile left me and with the dead thief, whose body was carried somewhere by sunrise by the police.
That was how we got separated.
After the accident, an old man who collects garbage picked me up from the ground and threw me into his dirty sack. I remember enduring long hours inside the sack with all those foul-smelling stuff, daydreaming about castles and carpets and harps, until I was handed over to the hands of a skinny little boy.
That boy smiled at me, and it was the most beautiful smile I have ever seen since I last saw our Potter.
And it was then that memories of Him came crashing back to me. I remembered how His hand was gentle but firm while forming me. How he would shake his head whenever my shape would not turn out the way he wants, and start with me again. How He would smile the sweetest when my clay follows the leading of His hand…
Suddenly, in the hands of the smiling little boy, I felt lonely.
My heart blamed the Potter for not securing my fate. For not keeping His promises. He said we were destined for greatness, cracked as we are… But where’s that greatness? Where are the diamonds and red carpet?
I felt the skinny boy’s arm tighten around me while he walked.
When he stopped, it was in a place surrounded by blooming wild flowers.
(To be continued)
Just a thought on how we sometimes think of SERVICE as a way to get recognition and gain popularity, when the true essence of serving is giving something without expecting anything in return…