This is a story for all those who have been broken and pieced back together. My mother was always a very active woman, and it was a rare occasion that my mother was not busy cleaning, cooking, baking, praying, or doing something in the church. On one occasion, she and I went to someone’s home, and as the adults were busy doing what adults do, I slowly meandered around the home and came across a glass case of cups and saucers. I wasn’t that much into children’s tea parties, but I was intrigued by how many teacups were all in this one case. My imagination was captivated by all the people an adult tea party would have, and I thought of what it would look like with each of these cups full of tea or coffee. I could see the cakes, cookies, small salads, or sandwiches that these cups and saucers would accompany. I am intrigued by taste, and so my imagination went soaring and I enjoyed the thought of all the fun it would be to taste these delightful treats. This beautiful case had captured my childhood imagination and I could see myself sitting at a beautiful table in a garden eating all the goodies and sipping the tea.

After a few minutes, I began to focus on each cup individually. There were so many different designs. Each cup brought out a new emotion or thought for me to contemplate. I must have been touching the glass because my mother whispered for me not to touch it. I was not swayed, and I stood looking for quite a while. Each cup and its matching saucer was distinct, but not all of them were beautiful. I remember thinking that if this was my case, each cup would be beautiful. As my eyes moved from one cup to the next, I came across one that had a saucer that was plain and didn’t seem to match. I puzzled why someone would make such a beautiful cup and then make this plain old saucer that didn’t even seem to match except one flower on it that tied it to its cup. My eyes stayed on this teacup, puzzling for quite a while until another cup caught my eye. It was very beautiful, more beautiful than all the other cups. Its handle had a distinctive design, and the artist had accented all the pretty flowers with a slight hint of gold. The texture had a very faint eggshell design, and was designed to look as if the finish had cracked. Each flower was different and more brilliant than the next. A little hummingbird was buzzing near the flowers, and it reminded me of my grandmother’s beautiful garden.

My grandmother always had a flower garden, and it was teeming with life. She even had a rose bush named after me called “The Cherish.” All the little bugs, including ladybugs, roly-polies, caterpillars, spiders, and bees, attracted many birds that would visit and hunt the insects. You could sit on my grandma’s porch and quietly watch a whole world, or you could get down and dig in the dirt and find hours of entertainment. Occasionally, the hummingbirds would visit, and I’d watch as they’d dip their beaks into the flowers for nectar. Their wings would buzz so rapidly, and I’d feel like it was a privilege to have them there. I also remember at one time, my grandmother had very tall sunflowers in her backyard. It matched an ankle-length dress my mother gave me. I would want to wear the sunflower dress every day. If it was in the dirty clothes, I’d try to dig it out, and of course my mother would have to take it from me. Then I’d end up throwing a fit and get in trouble. It was a constant battle for my young mother, and even though she was quite indulgent, she would never allow me to wear dirty clothes no matter what bratty fit I’d throw. I remember standing near Grandma’s pretty flowers in my sunflower dress and thinking how beautiful everything was, and in some way it made me feel beautiful.

Grandma’s garden bonded me with her in a way nothing else did. I would follow my grandmother around, pestering her as she bent over pulling weeds and caring for her garden. I’d ask her about the flowers and talk incessantly, and she’d answer my questions. Occasionally, my grandmother and I would fight because I would pick the flowers instead of just looking. I’d throw a fit, and she’d kick me out of her garden and send me to my mother. Then I’d be sad that I threw a fit. This was rare because I usually felt very little regret for any of my naughtiness. Although my grandma has now passed away, I can still see her bent over her flowers with her floppy hat on.

This teacup in the glass case invoked such a strong association to my grandmother that I spent the time looking at every detail of the picture depicted. On one small little blade that extended from one of the flower’s stems was a tiny caterpillar. You had to look real close to see it. I could almost feel the caterpillar on my finger. Grandma was not really fond of caterpillars because they ate the leaves of her flowers, but I would find them every so often, and I liked the fuzzy ones. Even though I was intrigued by this beautiful cup, the most upsetting thing about the teacup was that it had been shattered completely and had been painstakingly glued back together. Someone had been careless and let it drop. Then someone else had pieced it back together and glued it. The glue had turned yellow with age, and it marred the cup’s original beauty. I felt anger, sadness, and even guilt—guilt because I had broken so many cups in the past. The emotions I felt over the broken teacup and someone’s careless treatment was compelling and disturbing. Even so, I stood looking at just this cup for a long time. All the other cups seemed to fade in the background because this cup had stirred my emotion like none of the others. I wanted to wish away the ugly brokenness and make the glue and lines disappear. My mother finally came and took me away, but I remembered the broken teacup. A few years later, it came back to my remembrance when one of my mother’s teacups from her good china was broken, and we pieced it back together to keep the set intact.

I do not know how old I was when I saw the teacup. However, life happened to me, and I experienced many pains. There were times when I was broken by careless hands and thoughtless people. Some hurts healed quickly while others left their permanent scar. Some of the people that hurt me the most were family members, close friends, and church members. It was always those closest to me. Some experiences crippled my talents while others challenged me to excel. Each hurt and pain would have to be overcome and forgiven as I’d glue myself back together. Each of them was a learning experience. Sometimes, I thought, “This time I won’t be able to overcome this,” but each time, I would overcome.

Looking back on my younger life, I am influenced by the beautiful experiences I had with my mother and my grandmother. When my grandmother passed, she took a piece of me with her. If I were a teacup in a case, I’d be the mended one, but I’d also have a missing piece that no one could recover. As a woman, my opinion has changed. As a little girl, I thought my glass case would be full of only beautiful, unbroken cups. However, what I have learned is that the one cup that held my attention, the one that invoked memories, and the one that tapped into my emotions, was the broken teacup that reminded me of Grandma’s garden. Today, my case would be full of cups that have a story to tell. There would be the broken, the mended, and the ones that had a grandma’s garden somewhere in their memory from long ago.