I’m not actually a wonderful person. My name means wonderful, but many times I’m less than wonderful. I’ve been told of my pride, about my snobbing. These were the periods when I prayed most to God to keep me humble, the periods when I was excessively courteous to people even though they were asswipes. The periods when I wanted to be on my own because I enjoyed my solitude. Time out with God alone, even in the crowd. And still, they called me names.
I’m cracked in some areas of my life. Areas one-two persons know about. Jesus uses cracked people. He mends them because He’s the potter who made them and breathed life into their nostrils. I try not to be afraid what people think about my cracks, it only matters what my Potter says.
