My hands jump up and down on the wheel as I work the moist clay into what I hope will be a bowl. Gray water sprays my arms as I rub my forefingers along the rim.
“You’re making a huge mess,” Twin B. notices.
“It’s okay to make messes here,” our teacher reminds us.
“Yeah,” B. giggles, digging his own hands into the mound of clay centered on his wheel.
A few weeks ago when I asked B. what he might like to do, just the two of us, he immediately responded, “I want to take a pottery class.”
So here we are.
My misshapen bowl bends inappropriately and the more I try to make it stand up straight, the more it lilts to the side. “I think I need to start over,” I moan, ready to wad the whole mess up and begin again.
“Not so fast,” our teacher peers over my wheel, “it’s not over until it’s over. Some of my most beautiful pieces are born out of my mistakes.”
So I keep working with my sagging, sorry looking bowl, but it’s just not coming together.
“You know, if you bend the side a bit more and add a handle, it would make a perfect gravy boat,” our teacher observes.
And she’s right.
I wonder if God ever feels that way about me and all of my mistakes? Does he ever look at my life, shake his head, and think well, now she’s done it. What the heck are we going to make out of that? Or does he know he’s making a gravy boat all along?