Broken In Pieces He began a close inspection of each piece as it was lifted and placed on a work tray. His hands shook. Time after time he dropped the vial of glue, yet he never showed any signs of impatience as he carefully matched piece to piece.
She could see he was making steady, if slow, progress, yet she fidgeted, glancing frequently at her watch. Despite herself, she found her interest drawn to the row after row of shelves crammed with ceramics and glassware. Some of them she recognized as expensive pieces.
The quiet was broken when the shop owner looked up and said, "This needs to set a few minutes, then I can pack it and you'll be on your way."
As she retrieved her checkbook to pay him, she asked, "Where did you ever find such pieces?"
He slowly smiled as he answered, "Some were brought in and forgotten. Others I found at flea markets or in the trash. Some I've had many years. People don't come to this part of town any more," he shrugged, "and I'm too old to move."
"How did you ever get into this business?" she couldn't resist asking as he carefully wrapped her now nearly-good-as-new vase and placed it into a box. She'd seen his handiwork. No one would need to know her mother's treasured vase was ever broken.
He came out from behind the counter and began to take each item down from its shelf, wiping it carefully with a soft cloth. He drew a deep but ragged breath as he began to speak:
"Well, I reckon it was 'bout 30 years ago, I had everything: new cars, a nice house, a pretty wife, a great job. I was on top of the world. For me, the only way to live was to make money. The only time I spent at home was to change clothes, then head out again to meet those I thought could make me more money. I entertained in high style.
"Not long after I married my wife, I realized she didn't fit into my social circle. She didn't have the education I did or know how to present herself in a manner I thought was equal to me, so I left her at home--didn't want her embarrassing me. She must have been very lonely, but either she never complained, or I was never there to hear her.
"I remember getting very upset when she told me she was expecting the baby. I didn't have much use for her, and even less for a child in my life at that time. I had too many projects requiring my attention--there was no room in my life for a baby. However, I didn't particularly care what she did, so long as it didn't interfere with my plans."
"And the child?" his customer asked.
He reached into a front pocket on his coat and withdrew a thin wallet. Inside was a cracked and faded picture of a child. He handed it to her. Even with it so badly damaged, she could still see the beauty of the child in its infancy.
His voice grew quieter as he gazed at the old photo. "She looked a lot like I used to. Even had a birthmark like mine."
He replaced the picture in his wallet and continued his story: "One night, while I was enjoying another dinner in another part of town with another woman, a fire burned my house to the ground. Don't know if either one of them got out or not. Never knew what happened. Everybody assumed they died in the fire. Nothing was ever found."
"Oh, how awful! It must have devastated you."
"Not at the time," he answered after a long pause and another ragged breath. "I didn't miss many strides in continuing my way of life. It wasn't long before I got involved in some dirty business, made some bad decisions and got caught. Cost me some time behind bars."
"So how'd you get to this?" she asked, indicating their surroundings.
"My bad attitude got me into a lot of trouble with folks. Couple of times, I got beat up pretty bad. When I got out, none of the old friends knew me. Nothing was left. I stayed on the streets. I didn't care if I lived or died. One day was the same as any other.
"I ran into a street preacher one night. He began to check up on me, said he was making sure I behaved. He kept after me, asking me how long I was going to live a wasted life. I used to get real mad at him and told him to leave me alone, but he wouldn't. No matter how I talked to him, next day he'd be back, sometimes not saying a thing, just checking up on me.
"One night I nearly died from a bad mix. He found me, took me to the hospital, and I wound up at his house. Actually, his rooms, in the back there," he hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "It left me messed up in my head, you know? Took a long time to get over it.
"After that, I started working for him here in the shop. He taught me how to repair things and insisted I go to church with him. I didn't want to, but he was giving me a place to live and food to eat--it was the least I could do. I didn't let any of it get to me, though. I wasn't interested in the weakness of religion.
"One day I got back from making a delivery and found old John on the floor. I didn't know he had a bad heart, he'd never said. I wanted to call a doctor, but he said no, he had to tell me something. He told me about how he'd found God--how it had changed his life. I kept insisting on calling a doctor, but it was no use. He was gone before anybody could get here. The last words I heard him say were in a prayer for me. At the time, it didn't mean a whole lot...I was just mad at his God. The only friend I had was gone and I was back out on the streets.
"After his funeral, I found me a spot under the 42nd Street overpass. I'd been there 'bout a week, when the cops showed up and brought me back here. A lawyer was waiting for me and showed me some papers where John had left this place to me, with a little money to run it for a while. The lawyer said John didn't have anybody else to leave it to. He also left me a letter--his testimony. I've read it hundreds of times through the years.
"I missed old John a lot, but I owed him, you see? I kept to myself, minded my business, stayed clean. Every once in a while some of the old street boys'd drop by and we'd chat. Business began to fall off after a few years. My past began to haunt me. I thought about my little girl and how mean I'd been to her mama.
"One night, I couldn't sleep. I got back up and started working on a piece of pottery that had come in that day. Something happened--it was like a light went on. As I handled the pieces and matched up the pattern, I was suddenly struck by what old John had meant all those times he'd talked to me.
"I didn't know how to pray, but I'd heard John many times, and I began to repeat what I remembered hearing him say. Nothing happened at first, but then I realized I meant it. My heart broke and I cried for all those times in my life when I should have, but didn't. I met old John's Jesus that night and He became my Jesus, too. Now each time I mend a broken item, I'm reminded of how broken my life was, too, but the Master Potter put me back together again. I guess, though, there'll always be a piece or two missing..."
He paused and looked up at the woman, tears shimmering in his eyes as he handed her one of the little rolls of paper she had seen in all the other items. The old man quietly spoke the carefully lettered words she read: "Is your life broken, too?"
She was stunned by the unexpected question. She hurriedly picked up the box and turned to leave, then remembered what she had wanted to ask:
"Your little girl? What was her name?"
"Jacquelyn Marie Rose. My wife didn't have any folks, so she was named after my mother and grandmother."
An involuntary shiver passed down her spine. "Your daughter had a birthmark. Where was it?" she asked as she walked back toward the old man behind the counter with tears on his face.
He looked puzzled, hesitated only a moment, then indicated the inside of his right elbow.
She drew her right arm out of her coat sleeve and asked, "You mean like this one?"
The Master Potter, completing His work in His Perfect Way. Lives once broken in pieces, being put back together as only the Master Potter can.
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