What Happens When Your Pitcher of Life Crashes
Life is like a glass pitcher from the 1960s—meant to hold lemonade, sun tea, or even flowers. From the moment we are born, we have a purpose, just as a pitcher is meant to hold liquid. As we grow, we fill that pitcher with our dreams, aspirations, and ideals. We pour into it our vision of the perfect career, the ideal family, the dream home, the car we long to drive, and the life we imagine for ourselves. Every hope and expectation fills the pitcher to the brim, reflecting the future we once envisioned. Here is a story of What Happens When Your Pitcher of Life Crashes.
But then, life happens. The pitcher slips from our hands, crashing to the floor, shattering into countless pieces. Our dreams scatter across the ground, and as we scramble to gather them, we cut ourselves on the shards of broken expectations. In that moment, we face a choice: sweep it all into the trash and discard our dreams, or painstakingly pick up the larger pieces and try to glue them back together.
Choosing the latter, we piece together our pitcher, carefully mending the cracks. To the naked eye, it may look almost whole again, a testament to our resilience. But as we begin to refill it with new dreams and experiences, the invisible fractures reveal themselves. Water seeps through the cracks, reminding us that no matter how hard we try, the pitcher will never hold liquid the way it once did.
This has been the story of my life. My dreams were grand—I wanted to be a veterinarian for farm animals, inspired by my father’s belief in my natural talent. I pursued that path, thinking it was the only way to make him proud. But in time, I realized he was proud of me simply for being his child. My true calling was to help people, though I didn’t have the words for it back then. It took 30 years for that dream to materialize.
I dreamed of a life on a farm, raising Angus cattle. Instead, I built a different kind of home. Marriage, too, took unexpected turns. He wanted one child; I wanted four. We compromised on three, ended up with five, and now we have seven. Parenting has been anything but perfect. I’ve made mistakes, but I’ve also learned the power of apologizing and acknowledging those missteps. I can’t undo the past, but I can ensure my children know they are loved, seen, and heard. I can’t force forgiveness, but I can model grace and understanding.
The dreams of my youth—riding a canary-yellow Harley, living in a spacious two-story house—evolved over time. I went from a sporty little car to a minivan, then an SUV. Our first home was a tiny 900-square-foot space, squeezing in seven people with a single bathroom. We moved several times before finally settling into a house we love—one we chose with our adult children in mind, a place where they would always feel welcome.
Is my family as close as I had envisioned? It depends on the season. Some relationships are stronger than others, and we all navigate misunderstandings and miscommunications. But we come together for holidays and gatherings, and I believe that, when it truly matters, we will show up for one another.
My pitcher will never hold water again. But rather than discard the broken pieces, I created something new. I took the shards—my pain, trauma, uncertainties, poor choices, regrets, and disappointments—and mourned the loss of what could have been. And then, God transformed those pieces into something beautiful. Like a mosaic, my life tells a different story than I once imagined, but it is still a masterpiece. Isaiah 61:3 speaks of beauty rising from ashes, and I have found that to be true. Even when life feels like it’s burning around me, when I take time for self-care, lean on those I trust, and embrace grace and forgiveness, I can see the beauty in the brokenness.
My story is still being written. My mosaic is still taking shape. And in its imperfection, it is more beautiful than I ever could have planned.
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