Yesterday, while I was busy getting ready for my mother's move, once again she calls me to come get something. I was becoming frazzled and more than a little impatient with all the interruptions. Down the stairs I go and she asks me to look up into the back of a obscure shelf and see if there was a old pickle jar. When I found it she told me that it had belonged to my grandmother, my great-grandmother and no telling who else in the family since the early 1900's had used it. Now this jar is NOT a little jar. I haven't measured but I would start to guess at about 3 gallons. The metal lid is dented and a little rusty but the jar with it's beveled glass that prisms when you hold it to the light is perfect. Mama told me that this would be the perfect thing to put my sea glass and tiny shells (I collect the ones that are the size of my thumb nail or smaller) in.
The jar reminds me of myself. Empty, closed, and wanting to be filled again. Today, I will put my first piece of sea glass in the jar. Working to fill it again; and, like my journey in recovery, each little piece I put back into my life I will shine like the prisms in the jar and be filled with joy.