I rest my weary body in the church pew after a tiresome week of life. When I arrived this morning, I came with the worries of unpaid bills, unconquered struggles, and a “black hole” of depleted resources. I almost stayed home. I did not want to face the happy greetings of my fellow parishioners, because I did not share their happiness. I did not want to hear the celebratory chatter of excited friends, because I could not join in their delightful dialogue. I did not want to be faced with the dreaded question, “How has your week been?” because I could not provide a blatantly honest answer.

            But here I am—once again faithfully forcing myself through the motions of another church service…at least, part of me participates. My mind is already fast forwarding to the benedictory prayer, the closing song, and the final “Amen.” My mind is already reclining in my easy chair, drowning my sorrows in secular activities that will only worsen my already dark mood.

            Oh, wait! Now, they are beginning the opening song. I force myself to my feet, clap my hands unenthusiastically, singing the lyrics in a monotone melody, and counting down the minutes until my exhausted body can join my unengaged mind in my comfortable recliner.

            We’ve now just finished the second worship song, and I already have my tithing envelope in hand. The service leader will preach a couple of minutes on a topic he thinks will inspire us to give (Truthfully, he rarely is presented the opportunity to preach a full message, so this is his chance to “sneak a preach,” and his inspirational talk metamorphosizes into a five-minute sermonette.). My spirit hopes for his invitation to pray over the offering, simply so that I know he has completed his lecture.

            I place my envelope in the offering plate, internalizing my thoughts of the service lasting forever. I patronize the praise team once again as they sing yet another song as I begrudgingly give my tithe, while I coerce my body to continue my lifeless worship routine.

            Now it is time for prayer over submitted requests. I have previously petitioned God, seemingly to no avail. My enormous problems were never corrected, my formidable circumstances never shrank, and my lofty ambitions were never realized. Why should I try again? My limping faith barely dragged me through the sanctuary doors. I’m wondering if God will ever alter the floundering course of my life.

            Finally, it is time for the pastor to preach. I hope today he runs out of steam in 20 minutes or less. Today is not the day for a lengthy dive into the depths of Scripture. I just want to complete my obligatory attendance to this service so that I can return alone to the billowing waves of my problems.

            But this is when my story takes an unexpected turn. Pastor stepped to the podium and read the text of Matthew 21:44 NKJV: “44 And whoever falls on this stone will be broken; but on whomever it falls, it will grind him to powder.”

            The pastor’s next words captures my attention. He passionately states, “Sometimes, it is not sufficient for God to break us; there are moments when God has to reduce us to ground powder before He can begin His transformation process into a new vessel.”

            “Jeremiah experienced a similar event,” the pastor continued, “when he observed a piece of clay in a potter’s hand that was marred, but the marring was not the story’s conclusion. As long as the clay was in the potter’s hand, the potter continued to work with the ‘messed-up’ clay until the clay could be meticulously molded into the perfect vessel its creator intended it to be.”

            As I shift uncomfortably in the pew, tears slowly materialize in the corners of my eyes, as I begin to noiselessly acknowledge that God knows my heart’s condition even better than me. I am demoralized by the powder my life has succumbed to, thinking that change is only a lofty wish for an inevitable conclusion, but now I am reminded that the depth of my brokenness does not disqualify me from my place in the hand of the Master Potter. Even the Potter can do something with the powder.

            As I shook violently under the overwhelming grace of God, the pastor summoned the musicians to the platform and invited the remaining attendees to stand, as he concluded.

            “Unfortunately, some in this congregation have copied my neighbor’s pattern. Last year, at Halloween, he decorated his yard with an enormous skeleton that reached his roof’s edge. After Halloween, I patiently waited for the decoration’s removal, but it never occurred. Instead of clearing his yard of a figurine that did not belong, he simply began decorating the skeleton for the changing seasons.

            “That may sound like a humorous story. But how many of us have struggled to clear our emotional closets of the broken skeletons in our lives and have simply resigned ourselves to their permanent presence? Discouraged by the painful process of removing our rotting trouble, we are tempted to redecorate it, so that our problems blend into the other scenery of life. But instead of accepting my towering problem as permanent, decorating my discarded rubble as an attractive ornament, and attempting to cover the putrid smell of my decomposing issues, I must firmly determine to unclutter the grotesque landscape of my future and invite God to transform me into a new creation.”

            I am now slowly strolling to the front to join my fellow congregants. The severity of my struggle did not nullify my place in God’s hand. Instead, it actually padded my credentials for His use. It was the eloquent psalmist and successful king, David, who had fallen into an adulterous affair with Bathsheba and allowed his godly sorrow to produce in him a prayer of repentance, that gratefully admitted in Psalms 51:17 NKJV:

“17 The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit,

A broken and a contrite heart—

These, O God, You will not despise.”

            Is my trouble truly the will of God? Is it possible that my struggle is part of His plan? Could the brokenness that I currently suffer be the very condition God was pursuing for my life all along?

            Who would have thought that my struggle could be the catalyst that propelled me to my greatest strengths and prepared me for what God has next? I refuse to be blinded by my mistake and instead permit my brokenness to fixate on my mission and my transformation.

            Others have discarded us because of our struggle, but the abandoned powder of our lives is no less than a shunned army. The “discarders” have not yet realized the potential that lies in our brokenness.

            Raymond Woodward said, in a series that he taught on The Master’s Twelve, that the disciples truly were ordinary, and many of them possessed nothing and existed as nothing, but that is a great place for God to begin His work. After all, He commenced Creation with nothing, leading me to conclude God can use me, even when my brokenness has now deteriorated to ground powder. I might be powder, but at least I am broken, and thankfully, God can employ the powder after He has deconstructed my pride from my life.