I got pregnant at the age of fifteen (no, don’t judge me). It felt like my world had come to an end. No place to stay, no home, no hope, no future. Just me, empty wishes, and regrets.
One day, I decided to end it all; to leave this world. The thought of going to hell didn’t scare me; I was already used to the heat of hell on Earth. I wasn’t thinking about what people would say either, because I had already heard enough side talks and blame. I wasn’t sure if I’d find peace afterwards, but I knew I wasn’t ready to endure the turmoil any longer. So I set out, walking through bush tracks where no one could trail me or uncover my mission.
As I walked along the lonely paths, I heard only the whispers of the east wind playing love-dovey with the blades of Elephant grass. Well, I hadn’t experienced love, so I wasn’t jealous. Deeper into the bush, the birds chirped beautiful melodies, and the trees swayed in their glory. It was a beautiful sight; but me? My glory was long gone, and beauty had become a thing of the past.
A little farther on, I saw a small hut, old and deserted. Who on Earth lived in a place like this? I thought. Knowing my mission and that no one must witness it, I took a cautious step closer to satisfy my curiosity.
Peering through the cracked walls of the round, red mud house with its thatched roof, I saw an old man who could barely move. A ragged piece of cloth was loosely tied around his waist. By his side were clay and a bowl of water. I decided to stay a little longer and watch what he was doing.
As I crouched quietly, watching, he took a lump of clay and began to massage it with hands that were feeble, yet strong enough to shape it. His face looked tired, but focused. There was purpose in every movement.
I watched as he formed something meaningful and placed it over a small fireplace that also served to keep him warm. As I looked closer at the fireplace, I saw several beautifully designed and shaped clay pots. I was stunned, to say the least.
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But something snapped me out of my wonderland: as the old man tried to remove some of the dried pots from the fire, he hit his leg, and everything shattered on the floor. Shocked, I didn’t even realize when I screamed, 'Oops!'
'Who is there?' the old man asked, startled.
'I... I’m sorry,' I answered, trembling.
'What are you doing there, and who are you?' he asked gently.
I opened my mouth, but no words came. Still, he was kind enough to offer me a seat. I didn’t know what to expect. He didn’t say much at first. Instead, he slowly gathered the broken pieces of the pots. And instead of trashing them, he added water, kneading them back into soft, remouldable clay.
How could something so broken become so beautiful? I wondered.
As if he heard my thoughts, he spoke:
‘ I am the potter, and the clay is mine. No matter how broken or how useless others may think it is, my vision for the broken clay is different. I can fix it. So instead of throwing it away and letting it waste, I reshape it and sometimes, it turns out even more beautiful than the original concept.’
I stared at him, speechless.
Could I be reshaped too? Could something whole and beautiful still be made out of me?
You are the clay, and God is the Potter.
It doesn’t matter how broken you think you are, how irreparable you feel, or how scattered your life seems. All you need to do is meet with the Potter.
Oh, He has beautiful and meaningful designs to craft from your life—and you’ll be amazed at the beauty that was hidden within. God is the Potter, and you are the clay. He wants to put you back together. That’s why He ordered your steps here, so you could learn this lesson firsthand.
Are you ready to be fixed?
This is my story.
I wrote it after the Potter fixed me and saved me from depression.
If this story sounds like yours, then the Potter is still very much at work.
If He could fix me, He can fix you. Just come broken as you are, let Him remake you.
✍️Blessedink