I like the sound
Of glass hitting the floor.
The sound of the broken vase
As I carelessly throw it out the door.

Because it reminds me…
It reminds me that I’m not the only
Broken thing in this world.
It reminds me that
Just because I’m shattered,
I’m not alone.

It gives me hope.

Where I find true hope,
Is in the potter.
The vase I threw out the door,
It had to have been made
By someone right?
And that someone must have cared.

They put their time,
Their sweat,
Maybe even their blood,
Into creating it.
But the greatest thing,
They put their love into making it.

It was a piece of dirt,
Or more accurately a lump of clay.
But the potter,
He saw so much more.
He saw beauty,
When all else saw dirt.
So he molded it,
Into something of worth.

He crafted this lump of clay,
Into a beautiful work of art.
Simply because he loved it,
With ALL of his heart.

I destroyed what was created,
But can it not be fixed?
If dirt can become beauty,
Can broken beauty be repaired?

If I return the shattered vase
To the creator,
Will he care?
He could fix it.
So cannot my creator
Pull me out of my despair?

I like the sound,
Of Glass hitting the floor,
Because it reminds me,
That even if I’m completely shattered,
I can be healed.
It reminds me that
My brokenness isn’t life.
It reminds me that
There is so much more
Than the broken glass on my floor.