Gifts from the Broken Jar

I'm full of stories. And have had little time to put them here, but watch out! Tomorrow we say goodbye to the ADP staff here in Sinazongwe and then head north for the 4 hour drive to Lusaka. I fly out of Lusaka at 1:40 Saturday afternoon. Home about 11am Sunday. Long plane rides by myself....stories to come!

But I must write this tonight.....I really should have titled this blog "God is in the Details" but there's a reason for "brokenjar" and here it is.....



I am a reader. It's part of who I am. So when my head injury took away my ability to track and sustain attention for reading, I was wrecked. None of my specialists knew if/when I would regain the ability to read. I was angry. I grieved. And then slowly.....I moved back into the place that I loved. Book in one hand and post it notes in the other I discovered that I could move through books slowly and deliberately; putting post it notes all along the way. And then I would tediously go back through the book and type up all the notes and page numbers so that I could remember what i had read. Over these past five years I gradually increased my ability to attend and track with the material. With post it notes in hand I am grateful to be a reader again.



That post it note/type it out system is the reason I can tell you this story--On August 4, 2006, I typed my notes from Gifts From the Broken Jar by PJ Long, who uses this book to tell of her own head injury recovery in beautiful words that resonate(d) with me. But to my point just now--



She writes:



....After carrying several buckets of water from the pond to the garden I sat to rest on one of the warm gray stones and remembered the story from India about a village boy who brought water to the wealthy man.



Every day he walked several miles from the village to the river and back again, carrying water in two clay jars, one in his left hand and one in his right. The man paid for the water that was delivered--one full jar and one half full, for the jar in one hand was cracked and its water leaked along the roadside. Over the long months, the boy made many trips carrying water.



One day he sat to rest before returning to the river, and a spirit in the cracked jar spoke to him. "I am sorry, Master, that you have to work harder because of me. If I were perfect like your other jar, you would not need to take so many trips. And you could collect more money too. I am sorry that because of me your life is made miserable." The boy was surprised to hear such words. He did not think his life was miserable. He replied to the spirit, "Because of you, I am very lucky. A broken jar makes my life beautiful. Come, let me show you."



Together they walked back to the river. One side of the path was bare and dusty. But along the other side, where water had trickled down from the broken jar, the way was strewn with wildflowers.

 

Today's borehole celebration included gifts for me. It is a clay pot. A jar. This week I have heard, smelled, seen, tasted, and hugged.....gifts from the broken jar.