Cracks in pottery. Scars on skin. Chips in paint. We're surrounded by evidence of brokenness, reminders that nothing stays perfect forever.
I saw a video of an artist carefully mending a shattered bowl with lacquer mixed with powdered silver. Rather than concealing the fractures, she made them the centerpiece. The result wasn't just repaired—it was transformed.
2 Corinthians 4:7-9 tells us, "But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed."
Jars of clay. That's what Paul calls us. Not titanium vaults. Not marble statues. Clay vessels—fragile, porous, easily cracked. Yet somehow, miraculously, still standing.
Clay doesn't pretend to be unbreakable. It acknowledges its nature, its limitations. And in doing so, it points to something beyond itself—the treasure it contains, the "all-surpassing power" that comes from God.
When life breaks us—and it will—we face a choice. We can hide the cracks, ashamed of our vulnerability. Or we can allow light to shine through those very places, illuminating what would otherwise remain hidden.
I've watched this unfold in the lives around me. The parent whose loss opened their heart to others walking similar paths. The friend whose failure led to a humility they never knew they needed. The neighbor whose illness revealed strengths.
These stories remind me that God doesn't waste our wounds. The very experiences that break us often become the places where His presence shines most visibly.
And isn't that the point? We're not meant to be impressive containers, drawing attention to our own strength or beauty. We're meant to be vessels that reveal His light, His power, His grace.
The places where we've been broken and mended often become the strongest parts of who we are. Not because the breaking itself was good, but because God's restoration creates something new—something that could not have existed without the breaking.
When you look at your own life, where do you see evidence of brokenness? Perhaps it's a relationship that didn't unfold as you hoped. A dream that died too soon. A mistake you never thought you'd make.
The pottery art I mentioned has a name: kintsugi. It's based on the philosophy that breakage and repair are part of an object's history—not something to disguise but something to display with pride.
Perhaps that's how God sees our broken places too. Not as flaws to be hidden away, but as essential parts of who we're becoming. Places where His healing hand has worked in ways visible to all who look closely enough.
Consider what might change if you viewed your brokenness not as something that diminishes your worth, but as something that uniquely qualifies you to display God's provision. What if the very places you feel weakest is where His strength can be most clearly seen?
The beauty of broken places isn't in the breaking. It's in what happens next—when the Master Artist takes what's shattered and creates something unexpected, something that speaks of both fragility and endurance, both pain and healing, both our humanity and His divinity.
In our brokenness, we find not only God's power to restore, but His willingness to be found in the most unexpected places—the cracks, the fissures, between what was and what will be.