By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

Several years ago I covered a local craft show for the newspaper and was captivated by the work of several lapidarists. 

One man displayed not only his beautiful, finished products but also rough stones – common rocks I might have kicked out of the way on a hiking trail. With my untrained eye, I saw no potential in them at all.

When I asked how he recognized a true gem among thousands of plain rocks, he gladly shared his secret: “You can’t tell what it is unless it’s broken.”

The weight of his remark nearly buckled my knees.

“It’s got to be broken or be a rainy day,” he said. When the sun hits the wet or broken rock just right, that’s when one can see what it really is.

For the lapidarist, recognition is only the beginning. The skilled artist will cut, polish, and perhaps engrave the unappealing stone, transforming it into a beautiful work of art.

Such results require the touch of a master’s hand, one who sees what can be.

How often have we felt like broken things tossed aside and ignored by those who pass? How often have we shivered and cringed beneath a relentless, emotional torrent?

When the Master Artisan bends down and picks us up, He knows what we can be and claims us in our raw and unattractive brokenness. He knows our original purpose, and His plan takes into account every kick, assault, and storm. There is nothing He cannot fashion into beauty.

Imagine what would happen if we entrusted our stony hearts to His loving hand.

And you are living stones that God
is building into his spiritual temple.
1 Peter 2:5 NLT

~

Today Ella intended to relish every minute, burning the images onto her mind’s eye for review on the long train ride back to Chicago.

Her mood dipped on that note, and she squeezed the mare into a gentle lope, leaving the depressing thought behind. Cale stayed with her, holding Doc back in his long-legged reach. He could well outpace her, but she sensed a race was not the intention, though she wasn’t certain of what his intention was.

She knew only that she trusted him completely and would miss him desperately—the man who had so roughly yanked her from certain injury or death, persistently prodded her to ride again, and subtly charmed her with his cowboy ways. Unrefined but strong, capable but caring, he had patched a hole in her heart whether he knew it or not.

Perhaps Nana had been right all along—life was a collection of mended tears and tatted edges. Wounds healed over and beautified in the process. ~A Change of Scenery

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