The Sailor wanted to trade his life for the dirty and undeserving cracked pots.
The infuriated pirate shot Him three times with a pistol, straight through His heart, and everything was a blur after that. A blinding light (the pots said that it was a lightning bolt – the strongest they’ve ever seen) struck the pirate’s body down, burning him with his ship.
The treasure chest that carried us miraculously survived the fire, and on we went, along the waves.
The Sailor never left my mind.
After all the wrong things I had done, all those wrong thoughts I had harbored against our Potter, after all those accusations and blame I had thrown to the One who made me, His Son still chose to offer His life to set us free and bring us back to Him (I’d never realized how much I wanted to come back to Him until that day.)
But did the Sailor, our Savior, really have to die?
The price that He paid – I would never be able to properly describe how costly that was…
His life. For my freedom.
When storm was over, a gentle wind led us to the shore. At last.
In a city far, far away lives the most skilful Potter.
The way He creates His pots is different from any other potters’ way. He never makes the same pot twice. His every creation is unique — molded from diverse materials, by varying strength of applied hand pressure and temperature.
He loves every single pot that was born from His hand — I am one.
Every year the Potter would organize an exhibit of all the cracked pots He had created, where guests would line up and choose among us the pot of their preference.
We never knew it then… but the very moment our Maker gave us to the world, He was already waiting and preparing for the time we would return to Him…
The joyful sound of a trumpet echoes through the land as someone opens the treasure chest and light fills our once dark and gloomy box. A hand lifts me out from among the other cracked pots.
It is His hand. The Potter’s hand.
“At last… at last!” He says in the most loving voice, and my heart throbs as He embraces me.
“Welcome home, my child.”
I wish to describe every detail of emotion that I’m feeling, but the thing is, I can’t.
Back then, when I was away from Him, I kept my mind busy by rehearsing the things that I would tell Him when we meet again.
These are some of my lines:
“I really hate You for making me. If it were not for You, I would not have gone through all this.”
“I really hate my crack. If I have to live with this imperfection You created me with, then just destroy me.”
“You have no idea how miserable I was when you left me. I can forgive you, but in one condition: PATCH MY CRACK.”
The list goes on.
But here in the arms of the One who made me and patiently waited for me, all I can do is cry.
His Son died for all the lost cracked pots, but only those who believed that they were saved and set free would be able to find the way back to Him.
And every time a lost cracked pot would return, a feast is held in the land.
Then the Potter would kneel, collect some clay from the ground, and with one masterful touch, finally make the cracked pot whole.
and the BEGINNING…
A love so great that I’ll never be able to fully comprehend.