"Arise, and go down to the potter's house, and there I will let you hear my words." So I went down to the potter's house, and there he was working at his wheel. And the vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in the potter's hand, and he reworked it into another vessel, as it seemed good to the potter to do. Then the word of the Lord came to me: "O house of Israel, can I not do with you as this potter has done? declares the Lord. Behold, like the clay in the potter's hand, so are you in my hand, O house of Israel."

Jeremiah 18:2-6

In one of the books I read on grieving the loss of a child, the author suggested smashing a piece of pottery as a form of therapy. When I read that, I thought it was one of the dumbest things I had ever heard.

Then, not long after I read (and dismissed) the idea about smashing a piece of pottery, I was driving along, listening to myfavorite worship CD, and talking to God. I try not to dwell on the past any more than I need to, because as with all of us, there are hurts that aren't totally healed. But, it was a sunny day and I was alone with my music, so I guess it was as good a time as any to remember. As it turns out, I'm glad I did.

Before I get to all that, let me start with my first image of Jesus.

At my grandparents' condo, there was an image of the Lord that hung by the fold-out couch my sister and I used to sleep on in the guest room. It was surrounded by photographs of my dead Italian family, mostly women who: a) looked like they should have slowed down on the lasagna servings, and b) decided collectively that whenever a camera was around, they would pretend they were really angry and stare at the lens. Right there, on the wall of Sicilian terror, hung the face of Christ.

It was one of those "watch you wherever you go" faces. I would wake up in the middle of the night and feel like He was staring at me. I actually devised an elaborate system that involved my sister and me taking shifts so neither of us would be caught unaware in the event that He or any of the dead ladies decided to make a midnight visit. Let's just say it wasn't a great first impression.

Years later, two events occurred that shaped my life dramatically. The first was during graduate school. My dad called me one day and told me he had been diagnosed with cancer. They were going to do further testing, but things didn't look good. I remember the words three months being tossed around. I am a daddy's girl to say the least. Although I had no background with the church, or with the Lord, I decided to do something crazy.

I made a deal with God. It went something like this: You heal him, and I will find out about You.

It sounds kind of crazy, but I was desperate. The closest thing to prayer I had up to that point was when I asked God in the fifth grade to make my bowl haircut grow out while I slept. He failed me. I have pictures to prove it.

On Christmas Eve we got a phone call from the doctor. The tests had come back. They couldn't find the cancer.

My family had always been Catholic, so when I got back to the city where I was attending grad school, I called the local Catholic church and asked them how to learn about God. It turned out they had classes for this kind of thing, and they were about to start (go figure). I went to classes for a year and got to know God a little better. I decided I needed to get rid of my boyfriend, whom I had dated for almost six years. He was abusive in every sense of the word, and there are a lot of deep wounds I still carry with me from that time period. It was a completely unhealthy relationship and one of those times I look back on and wish I could change. It hurts because even though I didn't have a relationship with God at the time, I feel like I was unfaithful to Him.

Fast-forward a few years. I was driving home from work and talking to my best friend on the phone. A woman was not paying attention and pulled out right in front of me. I slammed on my brakes but not fast enough to prevent my car from hitting her and rolling over. I remember the sound of glass breaking and a scream (I guess it was mine). I climbed through the window of my Grand Cherokee and cut my shoulder on the way out. It was the only injury I sustained.

I noticed the police officers who came to the scene of the accident were taking pictures of my car, now upside-down in a pool of glass. I asked them why, and they told me that based on the way the car had rolled, coupled with the fact that I wasn't wearing my seat belt, I should have been under the front wheel of the car.

I didn't understand why that was interesting enough to photograph until I looked at the car. There was only one item that had come out of the car as I flipped, and it was now pinned under the front wheel. It was the rosary that I had been given by the Church when I finished my classes, and it was covered in my blood. Not a single bead was broken. I knew in that moment what many people are blessed enough to learn early in life.

He died for me.

Later that night I went to the chapel with my best friend (after she came flying to the hospital with wet hair because she had heard the wreck happen while we were on the phone), and we cried together at His mercy. The door started to open for a relationship with Christ, but I didn't fully let Him in.

All of that was about to change.

One of the most popular speakers and bloggers in the country, Angie Smith is the best-selling author of Mended, I Will Carry You, What Women Fear, and Seamless. She holds a Master's degree in developmental psychology from Vanderbilt University and lives with her husband, Todd (lead singer of Dove Award-winning group Selah), and daughters in Nashville, Tenn.