Ways Higher Than Mine (Part 1)

(I recorded this allegory in a poignant moment of life when I struggled to surrender a cherished dream. This vision came to me then, and as the story played out in my mind, I scribbled it down. Afterwards I read it over and knew it wasn’t my story, but God’s.)

I hold a well-built, smoothly designed, clay pot. Its rim has a few chips, but I don’t mind. It’s precious because it’s mine. It’s been mine as long as I remember and it’s a treasure I don’t want to part with. Today, as usual, after completing my day of service in the King’s palace, I take it from its spot on my dresser and examine it. I trace the crack down the center. This pot is the last thing I glimpse before shutting my eyes in slumber and the first thing my eyes fall on when they open again. I store my treasures in it such as my mirror, perfume, and books. These pleasures revive me. Many servants in the King’s palace possess their own vessels too. The vessels vary drastically from one another, but I don’t wish for another, because this is mine and although it’s not perfect, I love it.

Today, since it’s such a beautiful evening outdoors, I’ll take it outside and read my books on the bench in the garden. I don’t usually take the pot outside, but it’s hard to choose only one book. I’ll take them all and be careful with the pot meanwhile. I cradle the cumbersome load in my arms and find my favorite spot in the cool garden. Birds twitter around me. The sun seems to kiss every rose petal as it diffuses its last rays of the day.

I hear soft footsteps approaching. It must be the King, because He likes spending time with me. Usually I like it too, but sometimes He seems intrusive. Still, I greet Him politely and offer Him a seat beside me. As we share the quiet evening’s beauty, He asks me what I have in my arms. I reply, “It’s my dearest treasure. I’ve had the pot as long as I remember.”

He gazes across the garden thoughtfully. Then He turns to me. “May I have it?”

Horrified, I exclaim, “Of course not, Master! It’s mine! I could never part with it! Why do you want to take away my treasure?”

He reminds me, “My ways are higher than yours. I know what’s best for you, and this best plan is for you to give your pot to Me. I have something better for you.”

I am dumbfounded. I clutch the pot to my chest and reply, “But I love it! I’ve had it all my life! I can’t give it up! I’ll throw out all these treasures in here and fill it with soil and plant flowers in it so You can enjoy it in the garden! But please don’t take it away from me!”

Tears quiver in His eyes. Does it hurt Him to see me refuse His request or does He perhaps sympathize with me? But His eyes are, oh, so gentle and patient! I hug my pot and lift my head high, unflinching. I stand up to return it to the palace before He gets too demanding. But in my haste, the clay pot slips. I clutch for it. It falls. Smashing into trillions of smithereens, my precious vessel lies on the walkway. The books lie strewn all over the path, mingled with fragments of the mirror. A nauseating scent fills the air as perfume gurgles from a crack in the glass bottle. I stare at the scene, wringing my sweaty hands.  Blood trickles from my toe where a shard pierced my skin.

Without a word exchanged, I collapse in the dirt, weeping in agony. The wrenching pain chokes me. How could the King do this to me? Isn’t He a loving Master and Friend? He knew how I wanted this pot. I needed it, didn’t I? As anguish threatens to turn to bitterness, I never consider the fact that I was the one who dropped the pot. The King hadn’t taken it from me.

Hearing scuffles, I raise my head to see what the King is doing. Might He be laughing? No, He fetched a broom and is sweeping up all the bits. He still has tears in His eyes! He wipes the perfume from the concrete, and collects my books, setting them on a neat stack on the bench. He offers a hand to help me up, but I ignore it.  He speaks, using my nickname. “Pretiosum (Precious), I love you.” Then He tiptoes from the garden.

I hardly sleep that night. In the morning, my gaze falls on the dresser. Only the books that I brought back sit in the place of my pot. I lie in bed, weary from the night. As I stare at the ceiling, I hear a knock on my outside door. I pull myself out of bed and step outside into the brilliant sunshine. There stands the King Himself, with a wash basin and washcloth in His hand. Usually, I’d use my mirror to check my appearance. Embarrassed to be found in disarray, I quickly accept the cloth to refresh my tear-stained face. He stoops to wash my toe. Then He places His hand on my stiff shoulder and whispers, “Daughter, I know it hurts. But I have come to heal the wounded and to make beauty out of ashes. I still love you.”

I break into sobs, overcome by the confusion of last night. I want to believe Him, but right now, the future seems bleak without the pot I had always cherished. After I finish my spout of tears, we walk down the path together. I go through my daily duties mechanically, cautious not to bump my toe. Then when night falls, I find myself alone in my room again—alone to deal with the loss.

to be continued…

Last photo credits: Rebecca Weber