more stories from the pottery studio

“This would make a nice gift for someone,” our instructor encourages. “I’m amazed that this is your first time at the wheel.”

“Thanks,” Twin B. responds. “But I think I’ll keep it for myself.”

All the way home, he beams. “I’m really good at this pottery stuff, Mom.”

“You really are, B. You’re very creative,” I affirm.

“Even better than you,” he continues.

This is true.

Every time I sit down at the wheel, I have a plan. I want to make a mug or a vase, a bowl, and every time, I end up with something else. Something unidentifiable.

Twin B. sits next to me with his wet lump of clay, and lets the wheel turn around and around while he looks at it.

“What are you going to make?” I ask.

“I don’t know yet.”

And then as his hands shape the lump into something, he tells me, “I’m making a mug.”

And he does.

The day after our last class, he presented me with a wrapped package. “For you,” he says, “it’s a be-late birthday present.” He jumps up and down as I take it from him. “Open it!” he beams.

“Oh, B. I love it,” I tell him.

“I know,” he says, “that’s why I wanted to give it to you. Thanks for taking me to pottery class, Mom.”

And as I drink my coffee this morning, I’m reminded of my own imperfections. As a Mom, a friend, a follower of Christ. And yet God manages to smooth it out and make something good come of it all every time.