Friday, August 20, 2010
However, the other day my daughter sent one that I found particularly touching. She called me a cracked pot and I was honored. The following is the parable the "crack pot" email held. If you've already seen it, I think it's worth repeating. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
An elderly woman had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which she balanced across her shoulders. One of the pots contained a crack while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water. At the end of the long walks from the stream to her house, the cracked pot only arrived half full. For two full years, the woman fetched water daily, bringing home only one and a half pots of water.
Of course, the perfect pot swelled with pride, boasting of its perfect performance. The poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection and miserable that it could only do half of what it had been intended to do.
After two years of what it perceived to be bitter failure, one day by the stream, it spoke to the woman. "I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house."
The old woman smiled. "Did you notice there are flowers on your side of the path, but nothing grows on the other pot's side? That's because I've always known about your flaw. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back, you water them. For two years, I've been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my simple table. Without you being just the way you are, there would be no beauty to grace my house."
Then the email explained the obvious moral of the story: Each of us has our own unique flaws. But it's the cracks and flaws that makes our lives together so very interesting and rewarding. Accept each person for what they are and look for the good to be found within them.
So, I'm proud to be a cracked pot creating a path of beauty in this world. How about you?
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck immediately stood on end. Hackles raised, I glanced to the right. Three women glared at me as if I stood between them and their last meal. My survival hearing picked up the desperate hiss the young girl in the middle whispered.
“Momma, I want THAT dress.”
I locked my arms around the waist of the gown and through bared teeth instructed my daughter. “Get your sister over here now.”
We stood as one. The coveted dress locked in my arms and marched victoriously to the dressing room to try on the prize.
We bought the dress and emerged unscathed from the shop. I’m just hoping when my other daughter decides to marry, I’m given enough time for a few preparation workouts at the gym.