He held the shattered pieces in his hand.
I could not take my eyes off them, for the shattered pieces were me. I didn't deny I needed to be shattered--the flaws were clear even now, still retained in the tiny pieces. I knew I needed to be remade. Still flinching at each crack, I had tried not complain as I fell into a helpless, broken pile of glass and cracks. I am so frail and weak.
But what I could not understand was why he held them, doing nothing else that I could see. I had been broken so that I might be remade, not that I might stay broken. I knew, his timing, his timing, repeated in panting rhythm as I tried to breathe, but still the agony of the question swamped me, why doesn't he move? Why am I still shattered?
"If anyone serves me, he must follow me [to death]; and where I am, there will my servant be also. If anyone serves me, the Father will honor him.
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