“You can’t pour from an empty cup.”
I’m sure we’ve all heard this adage. It’s a common phrase meant to remind us that we humans have limits, and that resting can be the most productive thing we can do. It’s practically a cliche, wielded by many self-help gurus to promote self-care, and I personally can’t recount all the times I’ve read or been told this–especially during seasons where I perpetually forget to eat, struggle to fall asleep, and rely heavily on the support of my friends and family (a.k.a., battled depression).
And it was in one such season that an image hit me:
A broken teacup.
One with a crack that leaks on the one side, and a chip on the other side that breaks the cute little floral pattern we associate with fine china.
It doesn’t matter how much you fill that cup–its input will never equal its (usable) output. When you try to sip from it, it’s messy. The drink dribbles from the chip and from the crack.
It’s not whole, so it doesn’t work well–but it still works.
I often feel like that broken teacup. So much has been and continues to be poured into my life: the love and grace of God, the support of friends, the time I’ve allotted for myself to breathe.
But I’m still not able to neatly pour a full cup of tea. It splatters on the table, leaving messes and stains; despite my best efforts, I can’t keep everything together, both circumstantially and emotionally. (Can someone please tell me why I cry during Disney movies now???) I have good days, sure, but then I stumble. I fall. Tea goes everywhere.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe being human isn’t some flaw we must overcome to be ‘good enough’ for Jesus; maybe it’s the method He uses to shower His love and grace to other humans.
The Apostle Paul didn’t have teacups, but in 2 Corinthians 4:6-7 he writes: “For it is the God who commanded light to shine out of darkness, who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellence of the power may be of God, and not of us.”
Notice, he doesn’t say, “But we have this treasure (which references v. 6 “the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ”) in indestructible Stanley Tumblers so that the treasure is safe and secure at all times.” He call us “earthen vessels.” Jars of clay that are one bump away from cracking.
Tea cups.
The passage goes on to describe how we Christians have every reason to fall apart, yet are sustained. That’s the miracle here; that’s the encouragement. Not that we must hold it altogether, but that God uses our humanity to proclaim His goodness.
We are not broken, brothers and sisters. We are earthen. And that’s the point.
This image reminds me of what Paul writes later in 2 Corinthians 12:9: “And He (Jesus) said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.’”
God doesn’t need a perfect teacup to do His will. He doesn’t need a plastered smile or a forced, “I’m fine.”
And quite frankly, I don’t need those things either. I don’t need my brokenness to be healed to be useful for His kingdom (yes, that hurts to write). I don’t need my pain to subside for God to shine through me. Sure, I have preferences on how He’d use me in this season or how He’d make every flaw disappear, but where this broken teacup spills out, Jesus still works.
Because His grace is sufficient for earthen teacups. It is enough.
If this is you too, I pray that you would be filled with a sense of His grace today: a reminder that your value doesn’t come from how you measure up, and that you don’t have to strong-arm your way into feeling better.
Because you don’t. You don’t have to heal yourself. No amount of self-care or prayer can guarantee that.
What can be guaranteed and grasped is the grace and love of Jesus Christ, the Man of Sorrows, so utterly acquainted with grief, who created us as “earthen vessels” to pour that same grace and love into a hurting world.
You aren’t alone, my friends. Cling to Him and His grace. (And don’t hesitate to reach out to a trusted friend of family member if you need prayer or a chat.)
“Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in needs, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ’s sake. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”
II Corinthians 12:9-10
If this post resonated with you and you’d like to read more fiction with these themes, check out my second book, Dead And Buried. You’ll need to read book 1, By My Own Betrayal, to make sense of why the main character feels so broken and useless, but Dead and Buried explores what it means to serve Jesus when you’re physical and mental health are in rough places. Click here to learn more.