On the morning of an interview I had deemed my last attempt in the field of my degree, I read the words of Jeremiah: So I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel. But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him. Then the word of the Lord came to me. He said, “Can I not do with you, Israel, as this potter does?” declares the Lord. “Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand, Israel.” (18:3-6)
How much simpler does it make the process when the potter is molding clay that accepts its composition? Not yet knowing what it will be, the clay cannot claim any knowledge of its design. Cannot fight for control of the wheel. The clay can simply be.
Perhaps it is being shaped into a pot that will support fresh-cut stems of a friendly bouquet or fashioned into a mug to house the warmth of a new morning.
These things may come to pass, but right now, it is being molded–torn down, refined, reconstructed–but never leaving the Potter’s hands.
It’s difficult for clay that assumes it is finished; that presumes its design is established.
Sometimes I forget what I’m made of.
I feel capable.
I feel brave.
I feel small.
I feel fear.
In the end, the clay has to understand that for all the temporal emotions that exist in the unknown, it can only be something great if it only submits itself to the Potter’s Hands. To the Potter’s process. To the Potter’s plan.
Otherwise, it remains decidedly incomplete.
And what good is a bit of clay when there are flowers to be gathered and coffee to be served?