I started going down to the Potter’s house when I was around 17 years old. It was there, at His knee, with our hands deep in clay that I learned to listen, get dirty and to fly. The life lessons abounded, as did the art of pot building. I was fresh from the throes of rebellion, running on my own for many years. I was, as yet, an untamed beast with hair flying in the wind and a voice that spoke loudly with abandon. The Potter’s gentle words soothed ruffled edges and dashed hopes. He seemed to understand my wild ways without condemnation and had a way about Him that made me stop and listen. I never have listened well, and I still don’t, but the stories of learning to listen are so rich and varied that I cannot help but share. Perhaps someday they will feed another wild soul the way the Potter fed me.
Getting me to sit down and be still was a feat in itself. How He did that, I do not know. There was a soothing attraction or a promised peace that I had longed for? The room where He worked, though seemingly a closed up studio, offered great freedom. Freedom was the cry of my soul. Stretching young wings without parental control, flying under the radar of authority figures and a facade of confident poise gave me immunity in the past. But in the running headlong to destruction was a desperate longing to be FREE.
So freedom it was! Endless hours of dwelling at His knee, watching as He spun a bland lump of clay into a beautiful and functional vessel, and listening not so much to His words but to His heart, I began to turn into a colorful vessel full of holy oil. I was not only lovely, but useful.
Where oh where are you going?