The Tarnished Vase

(A reflection of time invested into Haven of Hope Girls)

The brilliance of the light reflecting from the vase is astounding. How can such beauty come from so small an area? How can something so tarnished and pitted reflect so much of the light? You can see the full image of the sparkling chandelier. This can’t be!

The vase is still covered with tarnish except the minute area where I have rubbed! Something so marred can’t reflect the image of the source of light! But it does! The excitement is overwhelming when I see that so much beauty comes from so small a spot! I must put more energy into polishing, so more beauty can be reflected.

As I pick up the cloth and reach for the polish, my eyes are drawn to my hands. They are tired, though they have accomplished so little. How can I keep rubbing? What if the pitted areas are too deep? Is there a better way to get rid of the tarnish? What if I’m not gentle enough? Could I do more damage while trying to rub away the fingerprints left by some careless people or person from the past? I have no answers, only a compulsion to keep at the task I have begun. I can’t quit, at least not yet. Whether the vase can be restored to its former beauty is a question only time can answer. But I must keep polishing. The vase is still priceless.

The progress goes quickly at times. But just as sure as I think it is nearing completion, I come across a deeper pitted spot which had escaped my attention. It takes so much time and energy, and I am spent. But look! The vase is so bright it looks almost luminous! The light seems to come from within. But it is a reflection.

The vase is set on the table as I stand back to admire its awesome beauty. Such a short time ago, you would never have guessed what was beneath the tarnish. Why was I chosen to help uncover the beauty that exists beneath? I haven’t been trained for such a job as this. Only God knows.

Suddenly, as I watch, a young man bursts into the room. He is drawn by the beauty of the vase. Nothing else in the room exists, in his eyes, as he advances toward it. Intrigued by the brilliance reflecting from the vase, the young man reaches out his hand. I rush forward to slap his hand away but am too slow. He touches the vase with a worshipful expression on his face. But as he backs away to leave, I see the fingerprints where I had just rubbed away other ones.

Can’t the young man see that he has marred the purity? Doesn’t he know or care that some of the luster is gone? How can the young man be so thoughtless? So uncaring of what belongs to another?

I struggle with my anger over the fingerprints left on the vase as I did such a short time ago. This vase was mistreated and handled carelessly by one who should have protected and cherished it. One who should have devoted his life to keeping fingerprints from ever soiling the finish. But I won’t quit. It isn’t hopeless. I’ll just pick up my cloth and polish, and stand guard over this most valuable vase of which I have been entrusted.