Cracked Pot -

Ever since I read One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, I have referred to flawed people as psycho-ceramics, the cracked pots of humankind. For most of my life, I didn’t belong in that category. Then in 2007, I had a series of crises, including the deaths of two grandmothers, the death of a beloved family pet, the loss of a business, and a failed 13-year relationship. The US economy was diagnosed with terminal illness that same year and I found myself with great financial worries. The whole world was gray, completely devoid of color. In addition to this generalized grayness, my body started failing, starting at the top. I noticed memory loss and loss of visual focus. God really must have a sense of humor or he wouldn’t have invented presbyopia, where the eyes cannot focus on near or far and seem to operate on separate schedules. This distressed me because it signifies that I am a temporal being. I have always been terrified of death.

I was originally baptized as a child after professing salvation, spurred mostly by my fear of death. I understood as much as a child can. Then when I was seventeen, I had a second turn-around after realizing that being a Goody Goody was not quite enough. Since then, I have been a nominal Christian. I’ve never had a smoking, drinking, or drug problem. I have always tried not to gossip. I have tried not to envy other people’s good fortune or their possessions. I have tried to be fair and ethical in business and in friendship. I have experienced guilt, a barometer of sinfulness, when I fail.

The years leading up to 2007 were filled with self-induced potholes, detours, and one or two very large ravines. In 13 years, I didn’t go to church except for a handful of times. I was married to someone who thought all churches robbed people of their money and I knew that if I chose to go to church it would likely cost me my marriage. My unhappiness bubbled into Despair several months before I started coming to Valley of Blessing. My husband at the time was out of the country for three months. While he was gone I hit bottom. I remember examining my life and feeling a sense of fruitlessness. “Is this all there is?” was the prevailing question. My second question was, “If I were alone, how would I change my life?” After introspection, I decided that I wanted to devote time and effort to someone else’s well-being as a volunteer at a nursing home and that I wanted to start going to church again.

In the midst of turmoil and fear I needed the security of repetition and ceremony. I needed something steadfast, of the ages, historical, and ritualistic. So I figured it out: I was going to find me a Catholic church. Then my sister, Rebecca, told us about this hair-brained ministry she had found on the Internet. Not really interested, I said. But in February of 2008 I had a significantly mournful day and this was the day my sister and mother decided to go to VOB and I went with them out of sheer loneliness and desperation.

My troubles did not end when I started attending this congregation. In fact, in the beginning I was so emotionally drained that I slept through many of Richard’s prayers—and a couple of complete services. I felt that if I voiced my distress, I would disappear in a puddle of tears. Each Friday I battled whether to attend or not. In addition to my grief, I was afraid to get caught up in the costumery of Jewishness and miss the meatiness I craved. So I hardened my heart toward much of what I heard here in the beginning, biding my time. As I waited, I learned a lot by osmosis. Things started clicking for me, not just in the way of theology but also heart clicks.

I’ve had a progressive softening of the heart that finally kicked in full speed in the last six months. I have started reading the scriptures. I broke open that blue Bible my mother gave me so long ago. I find solace in reading the Word. With help from our rabbi, I am discovering God’s wonderful patterns and truths and the beauty of the Old and New testaments as an ensemble. I have also experienced an epiphany. I am now ready to do what God wants of me, to go where He wants me to go. Or stay. For the first time in my life, I have actually prayed (and meant it) that whatever God wants me to do, I’m ready to do. Lose my job, my house, health or life? I’ll do it.

The breakthrough for me was—Let me start over:

My name is Renee and I am a cracked pot. But all is not lost; this realization has opened so many doors for me. Just like grief makes happiness seem happier, realizing that I am helpless turns me to God. If I am cracked, I can’t save myself. There’s actually solace in that. I’ve tried for over forty years and it hasn’t worked yet. I’m ready to let someone else take over.

The evening after Donna reminded me that I needed to write my testimony for this service, I heard a song I hadn’t paid attention to in a long time. It’s by Leonard Cohen, a secular Jew, and it’s called Anthem. You won’t be surprised that these two lines seemed written for me and really caught my attention:

“There is a crack, a crack, in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.”