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In the quiet, he thanks God—not for the transformation he can see, but for the process he can’t. The old mug still sits on the counter, still chipped. But when Mateo catches his reflection in the kitchen window now, he doesn’t see a broken pot. He sees a vessel still in the Potter’s hands.
But the words from Transformados En Su Imagen whispered in his mind: “La transformación comienza donde termina tu fuerza.” (Transformation begins where your strength ends.)
Daniel looked up, startled. For a long second, neither moved. Then the boy’s shoulders sagged—not in defeat, but in relief. And they talked. Not about grades, but about fear. About pressure. About the weight of being a teenager who felt invisible.
Mateo closed his mouth. He breathed. Then he said, quietly, “That’s tough, son. I’ve had days like that. Want to talk about it?”
He opened to the first chapter. Berg’s words were not soft. They did not promise happiness in three easy steps. Instead, they asked a question that lodged itself in Mateo’s chest like a splinter: Are you trying to reform your old self, or are you allowing God to create a new one?
But that morning, after shouting at his teenage son for leaving a wet towel on the floor— again —something broke in Mateo that was not his anger. It was his pride. He picked up the book.
