|Confessions from the Cracked Pot
Author: parkerquill PM
People think we are beautiful because we were made by the most creative Hand, but we cracked pots knew better. Those people do not see the scar, the imperfection. The crack.Rated: Fiction K - English - Spiritual/Hurt/Comfort - Chapters: 3 - Words: 1,560 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 1 - Follows: 1 - Updated: 07-25-12 - Published: 07-13-12 - id: 3041646
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In a city that no one has claimed to see lives the most skillful Potter.
The way He creates His pots is different from the other potters' way. He never makes the same pot twice. His every creation is unique — molded from diverse materials, by varying strength of applied hand pressure and temperature.
He loves every single pot that was born from His hand.
I am one.
Though we love Him, there was one thing about the way the Potter created us that we did not like: all of us have cracks. Some are hidden, others conspicuous enough.
We really hate the cracks.
People think we are beautiful because we were made by the most creative Hand, but we cracked pots knew better. Those people do not see the scar, the imperfection. The crack.
Every year the Potter would organize an exhibit of all the pots He has created. The event would always be held in a foreign city, but the Potter would never show Himself to the public. He reasoned that the people would see Him through us, His pots. I did not get it.
He is perfect. We are cracked. Would He like the people to think less of Him?
"One day, you will understand." That is what He would always say. End of discussion.
By the end of the exhibit, the guests would line up and choose among us the pot of their preference. They could take the pot home for free. Another thing we disagree with. We could not understand why the most skillful Potter would just donate His creations to anyone.
Some of us felt insulted, including me, but we just trusted Him. The Potter always has a different view on things.
I would never forget that day. All of us were placed on a long wooden table. There were at least three hundred pots.
The guests circled us, eyeing us with curious and thoughtful eyes. We were lifted by countless hands, and we knew they were looking for one thing: our cracks. Some of them would frown, others would smile, and oddly, some would laugh like we were displayed to entertain them.
We do not like being laughed at.
Soon the "adoption time" began. I remember feeling so self-conscious that I would faint if only a pot like me could.
I was passed from the hands of a farmer to a dentist, to a scientist, to a professor, to a carpenter, and it went on until all the other pots were taken.
I was the only pot left.
It stung to know that I was not wanted.
And somehow, I knew why.
I was the plainest among them and I have the biggest crack.
I was the most unattractive pot.
The Potter was not fair.
In my minutes of self-pity I heard heavy footsteps approaching the long table. They belonged to a messy and reeking beggar.
The beggar lifted me from the table and grinned, showing his decaying teeth.
I was lying on the sidewalk the next day.