Testimony: Here I Am, A Leaky Vessel

When I was fifteen, I joined Colombia House, which was one of those companies where if you signed on the dotted line, you could order one CD for regular price and get ten (or more!) CDs "free." (In the small print, you were required within the year to purchase at least a dozen CDs at full price. Quirky, but effective. I exponentially expanded my CD collection through Colombia House). 

The group Jars of Clay had recently released their hit title album, and was one of my initial picks from the company. I played that CD until parts of it were scratched and glitchy, but as long as I could hear the familiar notes of my two favorite songs, Liquid and Flood, I was okay. I would survive.

At the end of October that fall, I went to Bethel Camp's youth retreat. It was a memorable weekend for many reasons -- a nearly fatal road incident on the drive there (spinning the car 360 degrees on a wet highway in high traffic), beautiful crisp fall air that still takes me back to that weekend every time I catch the scent of leaf detritus, the acquisition of several meaningful and lasting friendships stemming from my time there.

I discovered three kindred spirits there. Passing by the open windows of the old chapel building not long after most campers had arrived, I heard the familiar strains of Flood by Jars of Clay flowing from out of the windows, and I went to investigate.

Inside the chapel building, I saw three young men with hairbrushes in their hands -- which they were using as "guitars" -- rocking out to this song. I didn't have a hairbrush, but I danced a little in the back of the chapel (where no one could see me, because what would people think?!), and admired the bold temerity of these guys who didn't mind what people thought because they believed in the message of the song.

Over that weekend, I found that this boldness was not a one-time thing or an accidental event. They lived their passion dynamically. Unafraid, they spoke up at any opportunity and at all times -- during prisoner's base on the ball field, during whole-camp capture the flag, during craft time, during meal times, during campfire time -- about the transforming power of the Holy Spirit in their lives. 

This was the first time I had ever personally met anyone who exuded such no-holds-barred passion for the Lord, and I admit, I was a little star-struck. It was a mystery to me how they so fully put themselves aside and allowed the Lord to pour out His Holy Spirit through them. They were vessels of not-so-hidden treasure. In my eyes, they became the epitome of 2 Corinthians 4:7: "But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us." 

My new friends were jars of clay who -- human, flawed, humble, and faulty -- exhibited a brilliant treasure on the inside that was so bright, you hardly thought about their flaws at all. The Lord used them as His vessels to carry His light to a campground full of teens, many of whom had never before seen the blinding, magnificent Treasure of the Holy Spirit.

Fast forward many years to August 31, 2020, where I opened up a blog. In the intervening 25 years from October 31, 1995 (Bethel Camp's youth weekend) to August 31, 2020, the Lord had taken my life, turned it upside-down, inside-out, tested and tried me, refined me, strengthened me, transformed me, and made me into His vessel. To be clear, He did not stop on August 31, 2020, but He did ask me to step out in faith and use one of the gifts He had given me, that is: writing.

On the set-up page for the blog, I was required to put a title, and I thought long and hard about what I wanted to say. I kept coming back to this verse (2 Corinthians 4:7) and the Treasure I wanted to display. I was all too aware of my flaws and quite cognizant of the fact that publication of words means that someone else besides myself and my Lord would read them, and that the court of public opinion is often not a kind one.

I Mosesed my way through my excuses (see Exodus 3-4 for details on all the things I told the Lord when He asked me to begin this ministry). Finally, after a rather lengthy inner battle, I Isaiahed in obedience (Isaiah 6:8). "Here I am, Lord; send me."

So in the "Blog Title" space, I typed: "The Leaky Vessel." 

For a little bit of context, most of you know that I spent a period of several years writing and publishing quite a few novels. I enjoyed the experience, I knew I had a gift for creating story, and I was thrilled to be walking in this path my life had taken. It was hard work, but fun. I met many fascinating people and had a lot of amazing experiences (trips to New York City, working with some truly gifted fellow authors). 

And then one day, my little world caved in. All the work and effort I had put into this career path took a nose-dive, and my plans, hopes, and aspirations came to an abrupt and painful close. Intense burnout coupled with the threat of a lawsuit and the pull-out of a co-author on a multi-year project crashed down in a single twenty-four hour time-span. 

I don't remember ever crying so hard. I excused myself to my poor kids, who I think were truly frightened, and I shut myself in my room to grapple with things that were too big for me. My clay vessel had shattered, and pieces of me lay everywhere. 

I tried a few times to regenerate life into this career I'd built. But every attempt, like a flame too low on a candle too short, guttered and went out. For a long time, I couldn't see where the Lord was taking me. You gave me this gift, Lord, I cried in the darkness. And then you took away my ability to use it.

And quietly, I heard Him say: Did I?

Slowly, and I've got to admit, tenderly, with the utmost care, like a person trying to coach a frightened, wounded animal from a dangerous spot, He led me back to writing, but along a different route from any I'd ever imagined. 

I began again, but this time, it was different. This time, I was writing from the Treasure inside me. Like those young men at camp so long ago, I stopped thinking about the outer, scarred fragments of who I was, and I began to realize that the Treasure that I carried around amid my warps and imperfections was the true beauty I wanted others to have, too.

You know, there's a short story in 2 Kings 4:1-7 about a new widow who has to pay her taxes, but doesn't have enough money. The tax collector plans to take her sons as slaves if she can't come up with the amount she owes, so in desperation, she seeks out Elisha, the prophet of God. 

Elisha asks her: "What do you have in your house?"

"Nothing at all but a little oil," she replies.

The poor woman is destitute. Nearly all she had has been stripped from her. She's got her sons, but they will be taken, too, if she doesn't get help. Her life is imploding before her eyes. There's nothing left to her. Nothing... but a little oil.

Elisha gives her some instructions: "Go ask all your neighbors for all their empty jars of clay, all of them. Don't just ask for one or two. Then, when you have all those empty vessels, pour the oil you have into each one."

She had to have been confused. That doesn't make sense. She's only got a little oil, barely enough to fill her own pitiful jar of clay, and he's asking her to fill a whole bunch of jars? She's asked the Lord for help, and He, through His servant Elisha, sends her on a tangent? Off on some meaningless quest that is nowhere near to fulfilling her needs?

She does it anyway. Her neighbors bring her empty jar of clay after empty jar of clay, until her house is full of empty vessels. Then she tips her jar and pours the oil. The liquid floods that empty vessel until it's full, and there's still oil left over. She fills the next vessel. And the next and the next and the next.

She fills every single vessel that packs her house until each one is full to the brim, and she sells the oil to save her sons from slavery, and lives on the rest of the wealth left over. Her own leaky vessel resulted in not only the flooding of a multitude of other jars of clay, but in the salvation of her family.

There's so much in this. When our vessels are emptiest, the Holy Spirit flows without ceasing through the leaks, the cracks, the warps, the imperfections.

"But He said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weakness, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong" (2 Corinthians 12:9-11).

A friend of mine recently began to hone her skills with pottery, and I asked her if she would make a leaky vessel for me to keep on my shelf and remind me, every day, of what I am. She obliged, beautifully, as you see. 

We are each jars of clay; not one of us is shatter-proof. Where we are weak, He is strong. Where we are empty, He's promised to fill us. Will you let Him in?