The Potter && The Clay.

His eyes were lush. A shade green as the trees after a fresh rain, but they carried a depth of wisdom that could only be found at the bottom of an ocean. His hands had lived long lives. The lines on his palms ran deep with scars and chalky dust lined his fingernails. 

A familiar chime rang along with a, “Welcome back!” from the front counter lady when he walked through the door of the town’s locally owned home goods store. It was obvious he knew every aisle; purpose filled steps took him straight to the back right corner of the store. There it was, shelves full of crafted pottery and jars. The potter’s hands skimmed the aisle, carefully picking up the crafted clay pieces one by one and examining them quite thoroughly. 

First, a silver-toned jar with a hand crafted lid that he gently lifted to take a peek of the craftsmanship that went into every aspect. Curious, he put that one down and picked up another. 

In his hands now was a vivid red jar that seems to hop off the shelf without moving. It was glazed with smooth perfection that he glided his gritty fingers across, “No, not this one.” 

He moved further down the aisle, reaching his glance to the top shelves where he delicately grabbed another vase. He felt the horizontal lines that cut across the clay so perfectly and his eyes gazed into its color that he thought could only be found that summer day he swam in a silky blue lake up in the cold mountains that took his breath away, quite literally. 

“I don’t want this one.” 

15 minutes went by as his eyes continued skimming the shelves of jars upon jars upon jars, but he hadn’t found what he was looking for. With frustration starting to grab his thoughts, he kept searching. This was important. 

Now using digging as his new strategy, he pushed aside the jars on display in the front to get to the back where he thought some others might be hiding. He reached his hand carefully to the back of the shelf, aware not to knock the other jars off, and in the shadows he felt one more.

And out of the dark came a small, oddly shaped looking flower vase. It smelt stingy, obviously having been hidden for a few years now. The dust that seemed to come dripping off this pot blended into the color it already carried. It’s edges were worn and faded into a dull brown color. The whole container was wildly uneven as he couldn’t quite describe it as being circular shaped or having rectangular edges.

Interested, the potter examined every side. He put his dirty fingernails through the cracks and rough edges of the jar tracing them in all sorts of directions and every which way. 

“This is the one. This is it!” 

Overjoyed and excited he meticulously cradled the fragile pot in his arms, thoughtfully making sure not to break its fragile bones. He reached the front counter and put the pot down next to the cash register.

“Hello sir, how’s your day going?” 

“Mighty fine,” he says as he pulls out his wallet and makes eye contact with the young lady who is working the counter. He came here quite often, but didn’t recognize her face. 

She grabs the pot in front of her to scan it, “This pot looks pretty beat up, did you see the other ones on aisle 7?”

“Yep, looked at every one of them. This was what i was looking for though,” the potter spoke proudly of the pot he picked despite the look on the lady’s face in front of him. She was confused but knew it would be rude to argue. 

“This is only my second day at work and the owners aren’t here right now, so I can’t give you a discount for the broken cracks in the pot. Is it okay if I charge you full price still? I’m so sorry.” She seemed to be giving him a second chance to go put the pot back on the shelf and choose a new one. He knew she would later go and throw it away. 

“Totally alright with me!” He still toted around so much honor in his voice that didn’t match the broken jar sitting in front of him. She carefully bagged the jar, making sure not to break it anymore then it already was, and briskly handed over the bag. The man grabbed the bag and pulled out a $20 bill that he shoved in the tip jar, “Good luck on the rest of your second day of work!” 

He opened the door and walked out hearing a delighted, ‘Thank you,’ and the sound of the door chime ringing. The potter couldn’t wipe the smile off of his face about what an incredible find he had that day, “I can’t wait to show this one to my wife when she arrives home from work!” 

Unwilling to let something so precious to him out of his sight, the potter rested the jar on his shabby and clay stained blue jeans to keep it safe on the car ride home. Starting his noisy truck, he drove out of the parking lot and sped onto the main road. Joy covered thoughts crammed his mind, “My wife is going to be so excited to see this! She’s gonna want to pick fresh flowers from the garden: yellow roses, calla lilies, silk daisies, purple bergenia. She’ll clip the stems just right and bundle them into one giant rainbow and use the pot to hold them. I’ll have to mend the cracks though before she can pour water in it for the flowers. I’ll do that and maybe I’ll even paint it a new color!”

At home he made dinner as he waited for his wife to arrive back that evening. As soon as she walked through the door his joy overflowed as he showed her the worn down, gray pot he picked up from the store. Together that evening, they sat at the dinner table eating and discussing the dreams they had for this broken pot. The potter’s wife was just as delighted in the plans they made. 

The next day, they got to work. They worked all day. The wife tended tenderly to her sweet garden. She did everything that someone could picture an expert gardener doing. The wrinkles in her face and the dirt between her toes could tell the stories of the years she worked under the sun taking care of such life. 

The potter delicately brought the pot to his clay studio. His actions could teach anyone watching him the fact that he had done this since childhood. All day, his hands worked to break down and mold and shape and smooth out the jagged walls of this pot. It was hard work, a meticulous job, and not just anyone could do such work.

Weeks went by, the sun dawned and golden rays streaked the clouds night by night. Finally, the work was finished. 

The potter grabbed his beautiful pot. The color it carried was brilliant; it elegantly reflected the lush green color of his own eyes. The shiny fresh glaze was smooth, free of any chips and misshaped edges. The wife cradled the pot as she laid her eyes on such a unique creation. Her husband so completely curved the edges into crisp corners. It was new! It was beautiful! She set the pot down and sped walked to the garden where she left the bundle of flowers she specifically picked and cut for the jar. They were a wonderful mix of artistic colors, exactly as her husband had pictured when he was driving the pot home on his lap the day he purchased it. 

She filled the jar with fresh water from the sink. There were no holes or leaks anymore. Grabbing the rainbow of flowers in her tender hands, she placed it into the pot and carried it to the table. That night, the potter and his wife ate across from each other while treasuring their work. The flower pot brought pride to the potter as his fingerprints were engraved into all sides of this creation. The work of his hands brought joy, but the work of his wife’s hands inside the jar brought satisfaction. This work was complete. The process as long, but fruitful. Together, they sat in awe. 

I sat in the woods on a hill yesterday as tears could have carved runways through my cheeks. The heaviness I carried spilled onto the rocks and dirt at my feet. My brokenness was exposed; my deep cracks, funky edges, incompleteness, sharp edges. I imagine my brokenness often shows as a dull, dusty color. The Lord has uprooted a lot lately that I would rather keep far below in the unseen layers of my life, or in other words, the back of the shelf hidden in the dark. 

In that moment on top of the hill as my brokenness overwhelmed me, The Potter put his hand on my shoulder and said, “This is the one. this is it!” 

So many years of my life I looked like the shiny red pot, the perfectly round pot, the smooth edged one. At least that’s the persona I wore; you can be broken on the inside but so easily hide it with a beautiful surface or a smile on the outside. 

Jesus can’t do anything with a perfect pot. A perfect looking jar only brings glory to itself. That mask you’re wearing is a closed door to the Saviors loving hands. 

The Potter longs for the process of molding a pot unto His glory. He paid the price for me, now He tenderly holds me in His arms as He brings me to His workshop, knowing my every crack and curve, and yet eagerly dreaming of the plans He has to bring me to beauty. Jesus will put me on His potter wheel. With the same hands that bear the scars of the nails that held Him to the cross, He will begin to mold my inmost being; He will tear down sides of my life as my pain and brokenness will bleed through the holes in my own clay walls; He will let agape guide His thoughts when adding new clay pieces and shaping the corners of my heart; He will imprint His own fingerprints on all sides of my life; He will pick a color that reflects His very own lush, deep eyes to paint every inch of me. I will probably be put through a fiery furnish at one point to cleanse all my impurities, to further harden the soft walls built by the potter. Re-building is painful but efficient; it’s unattainable to think we can be made new without some breaking first. 

So drop those pretty walls and let the ugly begin.

And the best part is that it doesn’t even stop at the rebuilding! The Potters heart is to fill His own jars with what satisfies. Like a rainbow of flowers from the garden, The Potter fills us with His own light and glory. The Holy spirit! A piece of heaven! 

2 Corinthians 4:7-9, “But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all surpassing power is from God and not from us. we are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed but not in despair; persecuted but not abandoned; struck down but not destroyed.”

What good news!!!!! In this verse Paul compares the value of God’s light and glory to the value of what He chose to put his light and glory into. 

Who is worthy to be a “container” for God’s light and glory?

The smartest person isn’t smart enough, the purest person isn’t pure enough, the most talented person isn’t talented enough. Even a jar made new fails to hold enough value to carry a piece of its own Heavenly Creator. And still Our Potter takes pride in seeing His glory inside each of His pots; He takes so much pride in us that He leaves each jar in the middle of the dining room table for every guest who walks in the house to see. Wow. 

And how many times was I like the lady at the front counter that gave The Potter a second chance to go put the broken pot back on the shelf to pick up a prettier one? How many times have I looked at someone else, so broken, so deeply addicted, so poor, so angry, so deeply depressed, so suicidal and thought, “God could never use them, and He doesn’t want them, so I won’t even try.” And maybe that person has been hiding on the back of a shelf not wanting their deepest most painful pieces to be seen by anyone, much less the Creator of the universe, but hiding from the light by no means extracts from them the need for the light. 

The Potter wants the one in the very back that no one else will buy. And he paid full price for every broken jar the moment He hung on the cross with a crown of thorns forcing blood to run down his spit saturated skin. If Jesus died to wash the sins and give full life to the very men carrying the hammer that forced the nails into his hands and feet, then I’m very well convinced He also died for the most deeply broken one of your neighbors. Or maybe you are the one needing to hear that today.  

Just remember, every smooth sided, gracefully painted, beautiful stained jar you see was stuck in the fire at one point. And no pot will ever be perfected until we get to heavenly grounds. We all still are working on our broken edges. 

And in truth, we are all just undeserving clay pots holding an unspeakably great treasure.