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?
Fin
Weeks became months. The book’s principles worked into his life like rain into cracked soil. Berg’s teaching on the “heart battlefield” (every thought taken captive to obey Christ) gave Mateo a new weapon: not gritted teeth, but whispered prayer. When the urge to control or explode arose, he learned to pause and say, “Señor, no puedo. Pero Tú puedes.” (Lord, I cannot. But You can.)
The key phrase appeared in chapter four: “No se transformen a la imagen de su propia imaginación, sino permítanme transformarlos a la mía.” (Do not transform yourselves into the image of your own imagination, but allow Me to transform you into Mine.) He opened to the first chapter
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.)
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.
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. Instead, they asked a question that lodged itself
Mateo smiles. “Yeah. I stayed.”
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 nodded. “I’m being remade.”
Mateo’s hands were shaking again. He set down the chipped coffee mug—the one with the faded baseball logo—and stared at his reflection in the dark kitchen window. He saw a forty-three-year-old man who had stopped believing in transformation a long time ago.
That night, Mateo knelt beside his bed—something he hadn’t done in twenty years—and wept. He wasn’t crying for his failures. He was crying because for the first time, he understood that transformation was not a project. It was a surrender.
Mateo thought of all his past efforts. He had been rearranging deck chairs on a sinking ship. He wanted God to help him be a better version of his angry, impatient, controlling self. But Berg argued—chapter by chapter, with Scripture woven like steel cables—that God’s plan was not renovation. It was resurrection. It was silent.
His wife, Elena, had left the small book on his nightstand three weeks ago. Transformados En Su Imagen. He’d ignored it. The subtitle— El Plan De Dios Para Transformar Tu Vida —felt like a cruel joke. He had tried plans: anger management (failed), gym memberships (abandoned), a short-lived promise to read the Bible daily (lasted until February). Each attempt left him more convinced that he was not a statue waiting to be polished, but a broken pot with a crack running straight through his center.
The first change was not heroic. It was silent.