When Mugs Break: Lessons in Fear


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I sink into my friend’s cushy new loveseat with a grateful sigh. The eight-hour drive from my house to hers has left me exhausted—I don’t have great stamina as a long-distance driver, but today Cassidy and I have braved the long country roads between North Carolina and Georgia, just the two of us, for the rare treat of a mother-daughter trip to visit friends.

With a smile, my friend’s husband presses a steaming mug of tea into my hands. “You are the best,” I say. I’ve been looking forward to this moment for at least 200 miles. For a few seconds I cradle the mug, savoring the way warmth travels through the pottery, into my fingertips, down into my soul. My friend asks what I want to do tomorrow. I lift the mug to my lips, gathering thoughts.

In the silence between sentences there’s a strange little crunching sound, and suddenly I’m burning. Scalding tea is everywhere—drenching my hands, spattering my arms, filling my lap, soaking the chair. I yelp and leap to my feet. In one bleeding hand I hold the mug’s handle; in the other, I’m struggling to balance the now half-empty mug. My friend and her husband come running, our daughters come running. The next moments are a blur of shrieks and towels, Band-aids and blood. When pain stops and chaos settles, we register what happened: The handle separated from the mug, sending tea flying and pottery shards digging into my hand.

Eventually, when we realize that there’s more blood than actual injury, that my thick winter clothes have protected me from true burns, and that my friend’s forethought in stain-protecting her new loveseat has kept the furniture from total ruin, we dissolve into relieved and shaky laughter.

I change clothes, we clean up, and after a while we are back where we started, settling in to chat on the couches. My friend’s husband brews a fresh cup of tea and holds it out to me. For a heartbeat I hesitate—a hitch of anxiety stops my breath—and I slowly reach out to take the mug. As my friend launches into a story, I find myself holding the mug tighter than I should be, pressing it hard with both hands. I cast nervous glances at the handle, studying its width, weighing its strength. In spite of the rational voice in my head insisting, “This is so stupid, hold the dang handle,” I can’t bring myself to let go and hold the mug by the handle.

The next morning, my friend offers me coffee. Coffee, beloved coffee, sweet nectar of life. She pours me a cup and holds out the mug. A fluttering starts in my gut, and I find myself swallowing hard as I reach for the mug with my still-bandaged hand. She looks at me funny. “Are you okay?”

I nod my head yes. Shake my head no. Set the mug down. Confess with a laugh, “I’m afraid to pick up the mug!”

My friend laughs, then looks slightly wounded. “You don’t trust my mugs anymore.”

“Not just your mugs,” I say with a guilty grin. “Mugs in general.”

She assures me that the mug in question has been a reliable vessel for coffee and tea for many years and is worthy of my full trust. She holds it herself, waves it around to prove it. We laugh, I pretend to feel better, and I pick up the cup, hoping she doesn’t notice that I’m using two hands, unwilling to risk the handle.

Several days later I return home—home to my own coffee pot, my own familiar mugs, dear companions who have faithfully served me coffee and tea during countless prayer times, phone calls, and writing sessions. But even so, when I pour my first cup of coffee into my favorite mug, the “Our nest is blessed” bird mug my mom gave me, I find myself staring it down with eyes narrowed, suspicion rising: Are you going to fail me too? Are you hiding some unseen crack, some weakness in construction? We’ve lived a lot of life together, shared a lot of coffee and good memories, but now…I’ve been burned. I’ve changed—have you changed too?

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Over the next few weeks, I keep drinking coffee, but always with two hands, just in case. It’s weeks before I can lift a mug without pause. Months before I can enjoy coffee or tea without a twinge of bad memory pulsing somewhere in the back of my mind. The two-hand mug-hold becomes an unconscious habit. Even though logic tells me I’m being ridiculous—In all your thirty-eight years you have had three million positive experiences drinking from mugs, and only one bad experience with mug malfunction—the odds are totally in your favor!—every time I lift a mug, some primal instinct rises up to defend me. Keep me from getting burned. Keep me using two hands.

After a while it occurs to me that I’ve done this before, only not with mugs. With people. With God. Most of my life has been filled with love, kindness, grace—ten million wondrous memories—but along the way I’ve also experienced a few shocking hurts and disappointments. Wounds I didn’t see coming, from places I’d never doubted.

Sometimes things break on us—not just mugs, but things that really matter: Health. Friendships. Finances. Churches. Parents. Marriages. Families.

Things we thought were a given, things we trusted without question—my mug will always hold my coffee, my friend will always be there, my church will always be a safe place, my parents will always love each other, my guy will always be faithful, my body will always be healthysuddenly let us down. They break without warning. One minute we’re sitting on a couch with a friend—happy place, familiar comfort—the next we’re gasping in pain, world spinning, and it’s ages before we can even register what happened.

When we’re surprised like that, when things break on us, sometimes we break too. Trust, overcome by fear. Love, overshadowed by suspicion. Openness, overwhelmed by hurt.

We don’t want to be broken. We’re not doing it on purpose. Logically, we tell ourselves that our newfound fear makes no sense—in neutral moments we even laugh at ourselves—but every time we face situations that somehow remind us of that one terrible time, the fear comes roaring to the surface. Taking over. Commandeering our thoughts, our feelings, our reactions. Making us curl into a self-protective cocoon where we can hide safe inside, safe all alone.

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Fear does this to us even when we are no longer in any real danger—it takes over based on mere memory. We may be sitting safe and snug—different chair, different day, different mug—but if our mind flashes back to the one bad experience with the one evil mug, suddenly we’re right back there, in danger, and it’s time to flee. Or time to fight.

We who used to live free, love hard… we become guarded. Protective. Isolated. Maybe angry.

We’re not crazy, not making it up. Some broken things, like my friend’s mug, are beyond hope and have to be thrown away—those losses hurt beyond words.

Other broken things can be repaired, but repair is scary. Imperfect. Risky. Even if we manage to glue the handle back onto a mug, we still see a seam. A scar. A weak place that, if we prod it and test it too much, we fear could break again.

Friend, if things or people have broken on you, if you yourself are broken, these words are for you. You feel pain, suspicion, fear—so do I. I’ve felt it in my own ways, through the lens of my own experiences, my own people. I understand the deep, visceral spring of pain that gives fear such ferocity, such control, such long life.

I understand it, but from one burned person to another, one broken soul to another, I’m asking you to let it go. I’m telling you that with God, through Christ, it’s possible.

I’m asking you to take away the power of fear—fear that warps and cripples and binds—by seeing through it. By seeing it for what it is: a fear that wants to distort the way you view people, do church, trust God, experience life, face the future. It is a hurt that wants to haunt you. An injury that seeks to change you. A wound that wants to keep wounding you—not with realities from the present, but with memories from the past. A fear that wants you to live trapped in an invisible box of your own creation. The wounds may have come from others, but the box you built and locked yourself—and friend, you still hold the key.

I’m asking you to use that key. Climb out of that box. Stand free in God’s sun.

I pray you find a way to heal. To forgive, as many times as it takes. To give your hurt and fear to God, and to trust that his hands are big enough to hold them. That Christ’s blood is thick enough, pure enough, to cover all and wash it clean.

I pray you find courage to breathe through the panic, reject the memories, reach out your hand, and take hold of that mug once more. To lift it up and drink it down.

I’m proud to say I have learned to trust mugs again. (Now there’s a sentence that’s never been said before!) It helped when I realized: Sometimes memory distorts reality. Inflates horror. Exaggerates pain. Over time, my memory of the heat and pain became more powerful, more dramatic, than the actual incident itself. Yes, for a few seconds I was uncomfortable, but I wasn’t truly burned! The cuts were mere scratches! Some experiences truly are as awful as we remember, but other memories grow over time—taking on heavier weight, accruing pain like interest.

Either way, isn’t it time to reach out and hold that handle again? The first few times will be the hardest. You might find your heart racing, palms sweating, head spinning. But with time it will get easier. And easier. Still easier. The more often you push through, the more quickly you will overcome. You may relapse every so often, but with focused effort you can keep moving forward. You can enjoy the things, the people, you used to enjoy. You can trust again. Love again. Live again. Yes, you may bear scars, but they need not define you.

My two-hand mug-holding habit took a while to unlearn, but over time, I have. (Mostly.) I now hold mugs with one hand, by the handle, the way normal, non-mug-ophobic people do, and most days I don’t think twice about it. (Although honestly, now that I’m writing this, I’m starting to feel a bit twitchy. Don’t judge me if you catch me relapsing with the two-hand hold for a few weeks.)

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Now I’m grateful for the lessons the broken mug taught me:

Most of the time, life is wonderful. But sometimes life hurts. People disappoint. Things change. Mugs break.

But you and I… we can move forward. With God’s help, we can heal. Forgive. In time, maybe we can even forget.

And you know what? Even if we can’t forget, even if we still bear the scar, it’s worth it, reaching out and taking hold of that mug once more. Scar or no scar, bad memories and all, the tea, the coffee, this life… they taste as good as ever.


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When Life Poops on Your Party

On Pinkeye, Lice, and Love

One Day, Somehow (A Promise for a Grieving Friend)


Share this post with a friend who needs it (and is scared of mugs like me, because I don’t want to be the only one): 

Author: Elizabeth Laing Thompson VIEW ALL AUTHORS POSTS

Elizabeth works from home as a writer, editor, diaper changer, baby snuggler, laundry slayer, not-so-gourmet chef, kid chauffeur, floor mopper, dog groomer, and tantrum tamer. She is always tired, but it's mostly the good kind.

14 comments

Comments
  • Bre January 12, 2017 at 1:17 pm

    Thank you for sharing from your heart! This really hit home for me. It’s so hard not to function from a place of fear, when you’ve already seen you’re worst fears in life realized. It’s a daily battle to remember the good, to be faithful and trust God, that no matter how much life breaks, he’ll be there to help me pick up the pieces.

    • Elizabeth Laing Thompson January 12, 2017 at 8:26 pm

      Bre, I know you face this battle in such an intense way, every day. I love what you said about how God is there to pick up the broken pieces. I recently did a study on Psalm 34:18: “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” I’d always wondered if that verse meant that God was only close to us if we are humble and repent, if we are broken of our sin (which kind of takes away some of the joy in the verse, the sense that he is there when we are hurting most)…but the more I dove in, the more breathtakingly beautiful this verse became. When it says “brokenhearted” and “crushed,” it means smashed into dust, destroyed. There are times, as you know too well, when life does that to us. We’re broken into so many pieces, we don’t think we could ever be made whole again—but God is near in those times. He sits, he holds, he listens, he cries with us. And somehow, some way, He has the wisdom to glue us back together. Sending you lots of love. xoxo

  • Catherine Shump January 12, 2017 at 5:21 pm

    Love this Elizabeth. I am touched by the beautiful and wise woman you have become!

    • Elizabeth Laing Thompson January 12, 2017 at 8:19 pm

      Thanks so much, Catherine! Love you!

  • Vivien Macdonald January 12, 2017 at 7:54 pm

    You’re a beautiful writer. I just love reading your blog. It brings a smile to my face – every time. I can relate to not trusting the situation or person after I have been hurt or let down. Depending on how tragic the situation, I think it does hardwire a path in our brains that causes us to stop and be cautious. However, I love the scriptures that teach me to overcome and open my heart again and again, and put my trust in God and God never disappoints. Thank you for always being so vulnerable and sharing your life lessons with us all.

    • Elizabeth Laing Thompson January 12, 2017 at 8:18 pm

      Thank you, Vivien—I always appreciate your comments! You’re so right about the way heartache and tragedy rewire us to respond in a self-protective way. Without the Bible, I don’t think I’d ever find a way to pull out of those painful, inward ways of thinking. Sending love to you…

  • Elaina January 12, 2017 at 8:36 pm

    This is so relatable! Thank you for writing this. I shared it with the campus ministry women I lead as several of them have shared feeling fearful of studying the Bible and giving their heart again after people have stopped previously. It’s scary to be burned and I can relate to the fear of it! Thank you!

    • Elizabeth Laing Thompson January 13, 2017 at 12:53 pm

      I know that feeling…it’s tough to put yourself out there again, sharing Christ with others, when you’ve hit some dead ends. Thanks for the work you are doing! xoxo

  • Jennie Goutet January 13, 2017 at 12:49 am

    Excellent post, Lizzy! ❤️ From one burned friend to another.

    • Elizabeth Laing Thompson January 13, 2017 at 12:52 pm

      Thanks, Jennie! xoxo

  • John March 2, 2017 at 9:39 am

    Thank you for what you shared. It really helped me today with something I a dealing with with my adult non-disciple daughter!!!

    • Elizabeth Laing Thompson March 2, 2017 at 1:48 pm

      So glad it was helpful! xoxo

  • Vivienne M. March 8, 2017 at 12:48 am

    Just read your post and it was so relieving to hear. I am currently wrestling with fear and sometimes I have a hard time identifying that that is what it is. But when it happens I just feel like I’m spiraling down a deep hole. I hate it and I wish I could just be done with this part of my character. The interesting part is when I am going through this time and I fight to cling on to God, even if its just in a short prayer or long bawl out. Which I say cry if you need to! It refreshes the soul. At the end of it all I feel like I’m one again with my God. He definitely gives me the strength that I know I wouldn’t have had on my own. The courage and love to share with others about him. I really enjoyed your post and I look forward to reading more of them!

    • Elizabeth Laing Thompson March 8, 2017 at 12:44 pm

      So glad this encouraged you, Vivienne! I’m with you on needing those long, intense prayers to set things right with God…they always make a huge difference, especially when I’m feeling trapped in fear! xoxo

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