jars of clay

“But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that all surpassing power is from God and not from us.” 2 Corinthians 4:7

Something I’ve recently come to enjoy is watching off-grid survival video channels on YouTube with my son, Daniel. We watch men and women - mostly alone - build log cabins with hand tools, forage for food, chop wood, and start fires in the most primitive way rubbing sticks together—many of these activities done in extreme weather, usually with a dog in tow, and incredible self-editing skills.

One of the channels that fascinates me most is of a man who, through a laborious, month-long process, makes clay from the earth, forming it into bricks to build a kiln, and then into roof tiles, which he fires in that same kiln. Sometimes, the entire batch will crumble or break, and he has to start over. Other times, he pulls out nearly all of them—rough-hewn, a little chipped, marked by a few cracks—which he then uses to build the roof of a small hut he’s constructing in the bush.

As I watch, I find myself wondering how many of those tiles are strong enough to remain intact, at least until his next video, and how many aren’t.

If my life has proven anything through the years, it’s that I’m not the strong one in my own story, and these last ten months, especially, have confirmed that again and again. If you’ve been following my blog, you already know that I lost my husband, Michael, last July. His illness and passing—all within a matter of weeks—left me completely adrift, floating through my days without direction, memories of losing my first husband blending with what was happening in real time.

I was just beginning to catch my breath when I had to leave our home and move in with my mother, who is suffering from dementia. Almost overnight, I’ve watched her go from being able to go out to lunch and enjoy a quick Target run, to being lost in confusion, hallucinations, and unable to perform the simplest tasks—like getting dressed or remembering my name.

It’s been a lot to wrap my head around, especially as I’ve had to make decisions for her that we’ve never even talked about—no siblings or family members to process it with or help carry what her future might look like. It’s been really lonely on that front.

I’ve spent a lot of time sitting with 2 Corinthians 4:7 lately. At its core, it shows us that God chooses to place His treasure - His Spirit, His power - within each of us: jars of clay, fragile and imperfect vessels, uniquely made and purposely placed in a broken world.

I love that. But I wanted to dig a little deeper—to see where jars show up elsewhere in Scripture, and why.

Enter Gideon—a judge, prophet, and military leader of Israel who, by his own admission, was the least in his family, hiding in fear of his enemies. Yet he’s called a mighty man of valor by an angel of the Lord and chosen to rescue Israel. So that the Israelites wouldn’t take the glory for themselves, God reduces their army from 32,000 to just 300 men in a pretty unconventional way and equips them with ram horns and clay jars that each carry a torch. At the right moment, God uses all three to defeat the Midianites—with no loss of life to Israel.

Then we see a Gentile widow and her son, on the brink of starvation, with just enough flour and oil—each in their own clay vessel—for one final meal. In obedience to Elijah’s request, she gives what little she has, and God multiplies it, sustaining her little family through almost 4 years of famine.

And finally, another widow - buried in debt and on the verge of losing her sons to slavery - tells Elisha she has nothing…except a small jar of oil. He tells her to gather empty jars from her neighbors, shut the door, and start pouring. And somehow, the oil doesn’t run out until every jar is full. She sells it, pays off her debt, and lives on what remains.

As I read these, a few things stood out: each of these people was desperate, none of them had much to work with, and yet all of them were obedient to what they were told to do. And within that obedience, God made a way where there seemed like none.

And in every story, there were jars of clay—ordinary, unremarkable vessels—used to display the glory of God’s power and provision in the face of impossible circumstances.

I believe that within every woman, there are many women: daughter, wife, lover, mother, teacher, friend, sister. Within each of those roles, there is both strength and fragility. And if we’re honest, none of us here tonight have made it through life without some kind of loss or brokenness, desperation or heartache.

The truth is, I’ve spent a lot of my life wanting to be the strong one, the one who holds it all together, the one who doesn’t crack under pressure.

But these last ten months have made one thing painfully clear… I am not.

“Yet, O Lord, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand.” ‍ ‍Isaiah 64:8

I’m rough-hewn, a little chipped, marked by a few cracks. I am, very much, a fragile jar of clay.

And yet… I’m still here.

Not because I’ve done a good job holding everything together, but because God has.

Because somehow, in the middle of grief, and loss, and confusion, and loneliness—His power has shown up in my life in ways that I know didn’t come from me.

And I think that’s the point.

The jars in all of these stories weren’t impressive. They were ordinary. A dime a dozen. Easily broken. Replaceable. But what they carried… that’s what mattered.

And maybe that’s true for us, too.

The strength was never supposed to come from us. The cracks don’t disqualify us. In fact, they may be the very places where His power is made visible—making Him known, making His name glorified.

I don’t know how much of my “roof” will hold from one season to the next. I don’t know what else in my life may crack, or shift, or fall apart.

But I do know this:

The treasure inside the jar… it definitely isn’t me. And because of that—because of the beautiful truth that it’s Him—I don’t have to hold it all together to be held.