A life discovered

While hiking recently through Pinchot State Park, I sat to consider, to draw, to write. As I sat quietly long enough, I began to see a change in the world around me. When I stopped, I initially heard an occasional insect flying by and the distant call of birds. Suddenly a noise prompted me to look up from my book. As I did so, my eyes met those of a grey squirrel. Her white furry belly was exposed as she stood upright. She looked as surprised to see me as I was to see her frozen in the middle of the path beside which I sat. Scurrying behind a nearby tree she hid for a time before gathering enough courage to cross the path on into the underbrush on the other side. As she did, I began to hear the sound of other squirrels scampering about in the trees above until I saw two venture onto the path to my right oblivious to my presence. Soon other squirrels were seen and heard moving about. Birds began calling to one another and could be seen flitting around in the underbrush.

So much life,

Previously hidden due to my loud pace through these woods,

Visible only once I stopped

And quieted.

Likewise it is with my own life,

Missing so much because I scare it away with all of my activity,

A life that bravely pursues its desire to venture out when I am willing

To sit quietly,

To watch,

To listen,

To learn.

The Potter's Hands

Have you ever worked with clay? I guess I did as a child but never as an adult. At a Shalem retreat, I had the opportunity to work with clay, and wow, what an experience!

The clay – a dark grey block, irregularly shaped. Gripping it – unexpectedly cool – firm – now softening – becoming warm in my hands as I begin to work it. Pressing, squeezing, clutching it tightly in my grip, I leave an imprint on it as it leaves one on me, staining the ridges and lines of my hands and finding its way under my nails. Initially with force and strength I work the clay, but soon – quicker than I imagined – it becomes soft and pliable, malleable and workable.

As I form the clay into an initial shape, I soon abandon this plan for another. It becomes apparent as I work the clay that I have more than I need, at least for the initial part of this project. I tear off a piece, and then another until I reach a size that enables me to form it more easily into a vessel initially resembling a rudimentary vase. Choosing then to turn this tubular wide-mouthed form upside down, I place it onto one of the before discarded pieces. It now takes the form of a tower, planted firmly on a broad and solid base of rock.

Initially, working the clay takes strength, with my fingers pressing hard into its form leaving clear marks of influence, but as the larger shape is completed and my work moves to the subtleties of the piece, this changes. A light touch, a gentle stroke from a single finger, these are sufficient for smoothing a rough edge or unifying a place of irregularity. A hard press will mar the work and must be withheld. Likewise, in the piece of clay called Me, in the past His fingers have pressed necessarily hard into areas of my life needing re-shaping. During these times, His influence has been large and obvious, and I thank Him for this. Now however, He works in more subtle ways, almost hidden and imperceptible. His touch is gentle and loving, smoothing out irregularities and edges while adding details and qualities of beauty and grace. It is these, when complete, that will demonstrate the character of my Potter, that of imagination, creativity, beauty and love.

Jesus, forgive me for not recognizing the various ways in which your hands mold me – at times with strength and large marks of influence while at others with gentleness and subtlety that actually create the greater beauty. And thank you that You are willing to hold me and work me in your hands, willing to be stained and marked by me.