I poured coffee into my pale green porcelain mug this morning, and it poured out the bottom. My husband Andrew apologized. “I must have broken it when I washed it,” he said, “I’m sorry.” He’d dropped it and the bottom had cracked. It was not repairable.
The delicate mug had been a gift from a group of friends when I was going through a rough time. It was a special-edition Tiffany piece I never would have bought for myself; my friends said they wanted me to have something beautiful, something just for me. I treasured it, as I treasured their thoughtfulness.
I poured coffee into another mug and sat down, feeling sad. It was the achy sad that comes with loss, the kind that hangs in your belly. It was the type you sit with rather than try to shake off.
So I sat for a while, letting myself be sad even though it was just a mug, just a thing.
Then my thoughts turned to Monica and Ellen and Margaret and Karen and Rebecca and Mary Ellen—and others—and the sadness began to trickle out of my heart as love trickled in. These women had stuck by me and prayed for me and sent meals to my family during a terrible, dark time. Their care and faith had held me up as surely as if Christ himself was by me.
Sometimes brokenness and love go together.
I went to the kitchen and cleaned out the cracked mug and plopped a pen in it. I put it on the table next to where I work. It’s still beautiful. And it reminds me to pray for my friends, and to give thanks for their presence in my life.
