Two weeks after my trauma my mother gave me the Tea Cup Story by Joyce Meyer. You can look it up really easily. She thought it would encourage me.

Instead I was enraged, insulted and inspired to write an addendum.  With all due respect to Ms. Meyer:

For many years the Tea Cup sat on the best shelf, much admired and much beloved, taken down for only the most important guests to sip their organic blended teas.
“Tea tastes better from this cup!” they would exclaim.
She remembered all the ‘Not Yets’ and they would rattle around in the hard shell of her bowl. Well, she thought, I’m happy to be done with them!
One day the Maker stood by. He’s watching me serve, the Tea Cup thought and glowed brighter.
Suddenly He stuck out His foot and tripped the owner. The Tea Cup fell to the floor and shattered in many pieces.
“How dare You?” screamed the Tea Cup. “I saw what You did! I saw that You made her trip so I would fall and be smashed to ruin. You said you made me perfect and beautiful. Even she is crying over the destruction. She loved me! You have broken her heart and mine!”
The Maker turned toward the Tea Cup as He left but spoke no word this time. No explanation, not even a ‘Not Yet’.
The misshapen pieces of the Tea Cup sat a long time in a box in an upper work room.
“My perfect, much admired form,” she wept. “My beautiful, much beloved pattern,” she stormed.
One day the owner sat down and glued the Tea Cup pieces back together. But to her horror there were gaping holes between her ribs, some pieces were crooked and one or two were missing altogether!
“Even He could have done a better job!” The Tea Cup wailed. “I’ll never hold tea again!”
“Hide me! Don’t let the important people see how low the Maker has brought me. Don’t let anyone see the damage and ruin and uselessness of me!”
She sat on the work table a few more days, or weeks until one day the owner put a candle at her cracked bottom and placed her by a comfortable chair and began reading the Maker’s good book.
Then the owner became sick. Beside her bed the Light of Hope shone through the cracks in the Tea Cup, warming the air and cheering the departing soul.
For years and generations family members placed the Tea Cup Candle in the window to light weary travelers home.
At the end of the Age the Maker came back. He took the Tea Cup in His hand and she felt all melted back to clay. His eyes shone a strange tenderness as He whispered, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant, enter now into thy rest.”

My very dear friend Sheri Coutts painted the picture.


2 thoughts on “Smashed Cups

  1. We peer through a darkened glass at this life. Guessing at the reasons things happen, the motives behind things that seem beyond human control (which we suspect are divine will or at best divine allowance). We come up with stories that comfort us, because we like having answers. We want to know. To know what to expect, to know how to respond when things happen.

    Generally, I find such stories lacking. They comfort me only partially, and only for short periods of time. I make up my own stories, but find they, too, fall short.

    In the end, I find myself more comfortable with the mystery. More comforted by the infilling Presence, than the hollow reasonings. (Although, admittedly, my mind does not stop trying to make sense of it all.)


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