The Beauty of a Cracked Teapot

This past week, I helped with an estate sale for the son of a woman I’ve known since high school. Her husband had been my high school guidance counselor, and their daughter was one of my dearest friends. Though it had been years since I stepped foot in their home, I remembered two things about her vividly: she loved to garden, and she collected teapots.

Even after the family had chosen their keepsakes, there were still over 50 teapots left—some delicate, some whimsical, some clearly expensive, others modest. One of her daughters shared with me that among them were special pieces called moriage—a style of Japanese pottery known for its raised, painted designs.

But it wasn’t the most beautiful or rare teapots that caught my eye. There were two that I felt drawn to, both imperfect, both clearly loved. One was decorated with magnolias—an easy choice for me, since I collect anything with magnolias for my Louisiana kitchen. The magnolia is our state flower, and I felt like this one was waiting for me.

The other was a dainty, pink teapot with a charming old-fashioned look. It had multiple chips, a cracked spout, and evidence of being lovingly glued back together. It wasn’t pretty in the traditional sense anymore, and certainly not valuable in monetary terms. I couldn’t quite explain why I felt so drawn to it—until I turned it over and looked at the bottom.

There, in the careful handwriting of its owner, was her son’s name and the year he gave it to her.

That changed everything.

Suddenly, this little pink teapot wasn’t just chipped china—it was a piece of someone’s childhood. I could imagine a young boy picking it out, excited to give something beautiful to his mother. I asked her son if he’d like to keep it, but he shook his head and said, “I want others to enjoy her things.” So I told him I’d like to keep it.

And I will.

These two teapots—one a nod to my home, the other to a mother’s love—are now mine. They’ll have a special place in my home, not because they’re perfect, but because they aren’t. They remind me of a woman who poured her love into her family and her community. A mother of five who found joy in flowers and teapots and the simple things that made life beautiful.

Sometimes, the items that are cracked or chipped are the ones that carry the deepest meaning. They’re reminders that love doesn’t need to be perfect to be powerful. Just like people, some pots still have a story to tell—even when they’re a little broken.