My favorite pitcher is in shards. Never again will it hold lemonade or water. Never again will it be filled with flowers or add its beauty to my collection of blue and white.
More than its utility was its sentimentality. This pitcher once belonged to my mother-in-law. It serves as a bookmark in the album of memories that is often turned to the page marked Elva’s Kitchen. I can almost see it now, sitting atop a cabinet near the kitchen table. Its Staffordshire, made in England, blue and white featured Longfellow’s Wayside Inn and was for her, I think, a memento of a trip to Sudbury, Massachusetts. I once told her I would really like that pitcher should she ever decide to part with it. (She never did; I just took it once she was gone.)
This morning the sound of porcelain on hardwood brought me running to where the shattered pieces lay strewn like petals from the dying flowers it often held. The grief I felt over this irreplaceable loss and the anger I had with the four-footed miscreant were momentarily muted by my fear that one of the tiny shards would work its way into a canine paw. I dealt with my triad of emotions in reverse order. I swept up the remains, tied up the puppy, and then shed a tear.
My self-pity was interrupted by the reminder that Elva didn’t actually love blue and white porcelain as much as I did. Given a choice, she picked green, or pink, or brown. Perhaps this pitcher wasn’t the most accurate memorial of her. On the bright side, its loss reduced by one the number of items my children won’t have to deal with when I am gone (an issue that seems to trouble them some).
What I remember most about Elva was not her pitcher. It was her kindness and grace to me, her first daughter-in-law. As the mother of three boys, I think she was delighted to have another woman in the family, even if I was the young and, in retrospect, ‘full-of-herself’ bride of her youngest son. She never chided me for my mistakes, but put me at ease by identifying with them. When I brought to my first Sunday lunch at her house a store-bought dessert, admitting it was a shameful substitute for the hopelessly ruined two-layer, made-from-scratch cake I couldn’t bring, she showed me her own cooking disaster—unevenly baked blueberry bread, the misshapen product of an oven not yet level.
Did we have our disagreements? Oh, yes! Were there moments when she offered unsolicited advice or when she hurt my feelings? Most certainly. Were there moments when I was disrespectful and lacked understanding? To my shame, I admit there were. Yet the relationship endured and grew.
She was my sounding board, sometimes the voice of my conscience, and always my advocate with our Heavenly Father. She was the one I turned to when life’s pieces didn’t fit or when the future appeared especially menacing. She would say quietly, “I’ll pray.” And she did! And when I called to let her know the prayer was answered, I could hear the smile in her voice when she responded, “I know,” and could give me the date and time when the issue was resolved. (She was always right.)
Her example of unshakeable faith in a God who hears our prayers and answers in his time and in his way sustains me to this day. As I was reminded this morning, inherited crockery may fall from a shelf, but loving and God-breathed relationships last forever.
With the broken pottery in the trash and a freshly made cup of coffee in my hand, I sat down for my morning meditations, currently in the book of Ecclesiastes. It was a good morning to be reminded of the transitory nature of human life. The words mirrored my own experience—a time to tear and a time to mend. Acquisitions and accomplishments are indeed vanity. Then to my delight, I discovered this nugget that brought me full circle and encapsulated up my own broken vase conclusions,
I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it…. Ecclesiastes 3:14
