Just a Plate

Psalm 139:14
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works, that I know you well. 

Many years ago I had a friend who owned a Chinese import shop. Her name was Kathy. I can still see her beautiful, timeless face and hear her voice. While I have lost track of her over the past twenty five years, I have something that will tie me to her forever – a set of irreplaceable china dishes.

Kathy used to return home to Taiwan every year to shop for her retail store. Her husband claimed she only went to buy pearl jewelry, the stuff for the shop was merely an excuse. Visiting family was another perk for these shopping sprees. Among parents, siblings and cousins Kathy had a very special uncle. He hand painted china dishes for very special patrons. The story surrounding the dishes is as unique as the dishes themselves.

When a marriage occurs between socially prominent families, it is the tradition of that region for the couple, or an artist, to design a china pattern exclusive to this newly-founded family. The china is molded, an artist paints them, and the family is the sole owner of the design (like a crest) until the pattern is released for public production. Followers of the family may then purchase the dishes produced as plastic ware for every day use.

I have the real thing.

On one of Kathy’s trips to visit family and shop for the business, she stopped by the shop of the uncle who was one of these exclusive china artists. He was painting a most unusual set of dishes. Against one wall was a table stacked with quite a number of pieces, against the other wall was a larger stack.  Kathy remarked on the wild pattern with the vivid colors of oriental fruit and flowers. She asked about the family who ordered them and was told their story. Then she asked why there were two tables full of dishes. He pointed to the stack on the right and said, “Those are trash.” “Trash? Why?” she asked. He picked up several pieces and pointed out flaws in the border pattern, flaws in the paint flow where the paint was too thick and created too much texture. He pointed where his finger prints could be clearly seen where he touched them before they were dry. She asked what he was going to do with the discarded pile of china. His reply was to throw them away. She was quick to ask him if she could have the so-called trash. Since he was certain the dishes would go to the United States, there would be no reason to worry about the duplicates causing a problem with the exclusivity of the set in Taiwan.

She returned to the states and quickly called me. “Guess what I have in the shop? I brought home some dishes that made me think of you.” I zipped over to the store and was, well, let’s just say, surprised. I am a pretty different personality, but the wildness of these dishes knocked me for a loop. As soon as I heard their story I fell in love with them. I was fascinated that I had the flaws to show people. I had the artist’s finger prints on my plates like a signature. Even though they are signed on the back, the prints were priceless to me. I showed them to everyone before I served food on them.

Years rolled along. . . . uh, like 35 years. My preacher at Addicks United Methodist Church of Houston, Texas, had a special program leading up to Easter. He asked members of the church to give up a meal they would normally splurge on during Lent and put money in a pot for a food bank. He brought a plate that had been in his family, told the story of its importance in his family's history and encouraged the congregation to do the same. Several people brought plates and told the role the dishes played in their lives. The plates were placed on the altar rail. It hit me that I had dishes that had their own story. Then I realized something deeper than just the uncommon design and what they meant to me. 

I stood before the congregation and told the tale of my friend’s trip to Taiwan, her visit to her uncle, the story of the dishes and how they came to be in my hands. I showed them the flaws and told about the finger prints reflected on most of the pieces. I admitted that I was more impressed about owning something no one but the original owners had in their possession. But the main thing the dishes revealed to me is that the marks of the artist are clearly seen.

Then it really hit me. . . I only hope I have lived my life such that the “finger prints” and impressions of my creator are clearly visible upon me for all to see. A simple plate gave me pause to think about my life.