In Gold entire

 

I first read about Kintsugi three years ago. It’s a Japanese art form where broken pottery is repaired with powdered gold lacquer, The philosophy behind it is that it treats breakage, and subsequent repair, as part of the object’s history, making the brokenness something of beauty, instead of something to hide.

The image is instantly appealing isn’t it? The idea of a broken object, maybe a quite plain piece of pottery, being broken and then repaired with gold. Instead of a plain pot, you have a pot woven through with shimmering gold, elevating its value and its beauty.

Our brokenness as people is something we all want to hide to a certain extent. It’s ugly. It hurts us to even look at it ourselves, let alone hold it up for others around us to see and comment on. Pain is ugly. We can sometimes try to paint a picture of tragedy that is picturesque or romanticised. The beautiful, grieving widow or the desperately hurt child who flourishes into a strong and self-sufficient adult. But life hurts each one of us.

I think we are all broken pots in some way. At times staggering around quite helpless, getting blood on our fingers as we try to put the pieces together again. Three years ago I had my own moment of shattering, I broke into pieces and despaired as to how I would ever be ok again.

Time and love and kindness and, most of all, God repaired me. I have lived a Kintsugi existence – aware of my brokenness, my vulnerability, but also knowing my value, my strength and my beauty. It was not an easy process, and not one I would choose, but somehow God took my brokenness, my moment of shattering and made something beautiful out of it.

So I know he does this. He did it for me.

The thing with being shattered though is that it leaves a mark. You don’t forget it, it lives on in you every day. It has made me stronger, but also increased my vulnerability. I know I can cope with more than I thought was possible; but I also know how much it hurts. I know the cost of pain.

A few weeks ago I found myself shattered again. Broken into hundreds of pieces all over the floor, and as I lay and sobbed, I wondered if I would ever again have the strength to stand up, let alone live a meaningful and joyful life.

But I know some of the secrets to living life amidst the pieces. I know the faithfulness of God, I know the power of a listening friend and an embrace from my husband. I know the healing properties of den building with my cubs and pouring words into (and out of) my heart. I know the strength that can be found in speaking out truth about yourself, even when you don’t feel it, or maybe even believe it.

I know all of these things, just as I know that life doesn’t have to be lived amidst the pieces. I know that all things can be healed and put right, and I choose to believe it and hang everything on that faith, because I’ve seen it before.

I sobbed last night and despaired at my fragility. I hated my brokenness. I so like to be strong, to be in control. How can I be repaired, I wondered? Surely a thing can only be repaired so much, before the pot is irreparably damaged and beyond saving.

The pot is too broken. The fissures are too deep and wide to be mended.

“Could be,”

I heard in response to my tears.

“Maybe I will just remake you in Gold entire.”