As I pulled out ornaments and lights and stockings this year, I began sorting through a small collection of bells. These weren't mine originally - they came from my mother. She decided about 4 years ago that she was going to try to give some of her own Christmas decor (which thoroughly swamps mine about 5 times over!) and give some to my sisters and I, things she wanted us to eventually have anyway. She gave me a tote full of bells that she had collected over the years. Grateful for the gift, yet knowing I have never once attempted to collect any kind of bells and knew I probably wouldn't put them out, I promptly had my husband put them in the attic and that was that.
Fast forward a couple years, to last year - I decided to look through them and chose just three small ones out of the 15-20 of them to set out.
So today when my husband was helping me unpack my ONE tote of our own decor, and the tote that was full of bells, he began taking them all out and I wondered to myself why in the world he was doing that, and just knew I would end up having to put so many back. As I looked through, I decided it wouldn't hurt to try and put them all out, and arrange them to match as best as possible (they span three decades, so you can imagine the variety in style!).
A few were inexpensive ones - Dollar store finds, etc., or maybe from a garage sell somewhere along the line. I could see my mother's face in finding them, the excitement of having found a bell she didn't yet have. They became a little prettier in that light.
Some were very obviously from specific places - maybe something a friend had given her along the way. I could imagine her joy and appreciation in getting such a gift, and knew she had given me that same gift - it meant so much more all of a sudden.
I saw several that I remembered her putting up, and thought how wonderful it was that my children were seeing me do something that I watched my mother do so many times.
Then I came upon one with a crack in it. Oh, it was barely visible - a lovely bell. But when you looked, you could see the unmistakable crack, sealed in by a very old coating of clear super glue.
In an instant, I reflected on my own day. One that started early, with shopping. Than back home to make pancakes, try my best to stay awake and read and play until that was no longer possible. Then - the luxury of a nap, and yet another trip to the store, for groceries this time. My husband had somewhere to be this evening, so after the tree was assembled and ready for decorating tomorrow, he left. I began dinner, and somewhere around there, the night began to get long - kids were tired, cranky, trying to hold out, and quite honestly - failing miserably. And so was I, despite the nap. The night got longer and longer, and came to a head when Hoss tried to move the coffee table and slammed it into a glass section of our dining room door, breaking it into a hundred tiny pieces. I felt the final straw pull, and decided that sleeping in the living room, by the light of the tree, just WAS NOT going to happen tonight - they were tired, I was tired, and we just needed to be done with our day. I prayed and just asked the Lord what I should do - He reminded me with a still, small voice, that I needed to use the same with them. So, with a small, quiet voice, we re-grouped, and got everyone settled in for a night of Polar Express and tree-light. I thought about this crack, and wondered how it had happened. You see - I can't really remember. Maybe she dropped it when unpacking, maybe the box shifted too rough in a trip up or down out of the attic. Maybe, just maybe.... I broke it. Or one of my sisters. I couldn't remember. I could imagine her very carefully, gently, precisely holding it in place and gluing it back together - making sure every edge matched up just so. Making it presentable again - able to be set out among all the others, trying to move on the way it once was. And for years - it had remained in the collection. The crack was still there, and if you were to pick it up, it would be easy to spot. Yet, it wasn't trashed - it was able to be restored enough to make it all this time. I realized then, that I should react often times as with the bell. Realize there is no way to go back and 'un-crack' what has been messed up - there is no way to change the past. You can sorrow over it, lament what used to be, be sad - angry - even cry a bucket of tears. But then - then you must find a way to pick up the pieces, but them back together the best you can, and move on. Place the bell out with the others, and know that even when all others have forgotten, you will remember the crack - how it got there - how you fixed it. Or maybe, you might find that years later, you can't recall what once was such a big deal. Maybe it wasn't so big after all.
Isn't that what God does with us, after all? We are cracked vessels - broken and unable to be used on our own. We won't ring out His truth, we wouldn't even make it back on the shelf. He picks us up, though - dusts us off, finds all the missing pieces, and carefully glues us back together again. We go year after year, and sometimes forget what was so hard once. Sometimes, the memory is there, and serves as a reminder that we could not make it on our own, but with His hand to carry us through and restore us - until the only thing left of the trial is a faint mark, only visible to a close eye. The marks will change us, but they don't have to destroy us forever - in fact, they can yield a testimony of victory over a trial, and proof that God's hands can hold and heal us, and make us fit again to go another day, month, year.
So this year, if sometimes breaks - remember the little hands that most likely didn't mean to break it. Remember that one day, they will look back and what you do now will be their memory forever. And if you are the bell - you are cracked, broken, torn apart by some valley you are walking through - lean on the One - the Only One - who can pick you up, fit the pieces together, and help you get on down the road. One day, it will be a faint memory - no bigger than a crack on a bell.
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