Masonry Jars and Midnight Whispers: A Reflection of Ashes and Oysters

Masonry Jars and Midnight Whispers: A Reflection of Ashes and Oysters

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

I once heard a man say that nothing holy comes from ashes he clearly never met someone like me who’s been scorched by life but still managed to glow in the dark. You see, while some folks collected coins, stamps, or bad decisions, I collected ashes. Literal ashes. He burned everything his words, his promises, even the bridge I used to cross to get to hope. But instead of crying over the smoke, I grabbed a set of old masonry jars, the kind my grandmother Celestine used to keep pickled okra in, and I saved those ashes. Labelled them too. "Heartbreak 2001," "Disappointment with a Smile," "Faith Burnt Down but Not Out." You’d think I was starting a museum of emotional residue. Maybe I was. After all, even ruins can teach if you listen long enough especially when they start whispering at night like gossipy neighbors on a front porch.

Let me tell you something funny well, funny in that way where you laugh so you don’t cry and cry so you don’t cuss. I didn’t start out spiritual. I was illiterate in spirit. Not illiterate in reading; I could read just fine, thank you. But when it came to decoding divine direction? Child, I was out here like a man trying to read Hebrew upside down without his glasses. Then, one night between midnight and 2 a.m. prime time for divine downloads and sketchy decisions I heard it: “I will teach you to read.” Not in English, not in Greek, but in Spirit. And trust me, Spirit don’t come with cliff notes.

And no, this didn’t happen at a revival with tambourines and folding chairs. It happened somewhere between a marsh and a mistake. I was out hunting oysters and crabs my version of a part-time hustle meets spiritual pilgrimage. I needed a little change. Not just financially, but mentally, emotionally, spiritually. The kind of change that clinks when it drops into your soul. Now, the marsh was muddy, and so was my heart. But my grandmother always said, “God don’t drop pearls on the sidewalk. You gotta get your feet wet.” And Lord, were my feet soaked along with my pride and my last clean pair of socks.

She also used to say, “They don’t say that in the Bible,” whenever someone would misquote scripture or try to use religion like a credit card they hadn’t paid off in years. Grandma Celestine had spiritual wisdom and a face that could slice through foolishness like a hot knife through margarine. She’d say things like, "Jesus fed 5,000, baby, but you still gotta bring your own plate." And I held on to that kind of wisdom like a pocketknife on a camping trip it was sharp, small, and saved me more times than I can count.

Now let’s talk folklore. Folklore says if you catch a blue crab after midnight, your wishes will come true. What it fails to mention is those wishes come wrapped in character development and unpaid bills. I wished for peace and the Creator said, “Here, hold this storm first.” I asked for light and got tossed into darkness so thick I needed a flashlight and a friend named Grace. You ever argue with the Divine? It’s like trying to swat a fly with a wet noodle pointless, dramatic, and only successful in making you look crazy.

Some folks pray with pretty words. Their prayers sound like poems dipped in essential oils. My prayers? Oh, they sounded like a smoke detector low on battery irritating, honest, and impossible to ignore. I’d stand in front of my altar of jars and say, “Look, Lord, here’s what’s left of me. I brought leftovers.” And the Divine, with a chuckle wrapped in mercy, replied, “Child, I’ve made five-star meals out of worse.”

And here’s the twist: those ashes started to talk. Not like "call-the-pastor" talking, but each jar became a sermon, a psalm, a proverb. They spoke in a language only the broken could understand. They told me I was still useful. Bent, but not snapped. Scarred, but not dismissed. And I realized something: I didn’t just survive the fire. I became fireproof. Or at least flame-resistant with a return policy.

See, ashes used to be something. They were love letters, failed dreams, burned bridges, and singed egos. But the Creator sometimes allows the fire, not to destroy us but to distinguish us. Some blessings have to come through the burn. It’s the spiritual version of a deep clean. The stuff that wasn’t meant to stay gets scorched so the sacred can be seen. Kinda like frying fish you gotta get rid of the old oil if you want that fresh, crispy anointing.

And that’s where the knowing began. Not just belief. Not just church attendance and catchy worship songs. I’m talking knowing. That gut-rooted, Spirit-sealed, sweat-and-saltwater soaked certainty. The kind that makes you laugh when chaos walks in, because you recognize it as a setup for another testimony.

So yeah, I labelled my jars. Each one a trophy of survival. “2020: The Year I Thought I Lost My Mind.” “April 3rd: The Night I Cried Like a Grown Man Watching a Pixar Movie.” “That Time I Tried to Fix It Without Praying First.” I should open a museum. Charge admission. Hand out tissues and lemonade.

But here’s the deeper truth those ashes weren’t just evidence of what was destroyed. They were the soil of what was coming. See, new things grow better in burnt ground. That’s agriculture and theology. Ashes hold nutrients. Pain holds potential. And humor, baby, humor is holy. Sometimes, the holiest thing you can do is laugh while you're healing.

So if you see me talking to jars, leave me be. I’m having church. And if I invite you over and say, "Pick a jar," understand it ain’t a party favor. It’s a map. A reminder that survival ain’t sterile. It’s smoky, messy, loud, and sometimes smells like crab boil and old incense.

Southern wisdom says, "Don’t throw away nothin’ you cried over." So I kept the ashes. And now, they speak. They remind me that God don’t waste pain. That even when you’re walking barefoot through emotional marshland, there’s still pearls in the mud. You just gotta get your feet dirty, your hands busy, and your heart open.

So tonight, if you find yourself awake between midnight and 2 a.m., sweating from worry or stirred by wonder, listen closely. Spirit speaks best when the world goes quiet. Maybe you’ll hear it too: that gentle whisper that says, “I will teach you to read.” And maybe you’ll realize, you ain’t just reading anymore. You’re writing. And baby, your ashes are the ink.

And just like that, what tried to bury you becomes what testifies for you. What burned down becomes what builds you up. And the jars? Oh, they stay. Because every now and then, even the healed need a reminder of what they walked through. And maybe a good laugh at the labels.