Made of Clay

I become distracted, overfilling myself with the wrong foods, carrying the wrong burdens, instead of simply taking His yoke. Till I am broken once again.

I become impatient. Desecrating sacred moments with dissatisfaction. Writhing anxiously with tasks incomplete. Aching. Deep. Emptiness. And somehow I forget all about the beauty that swells around me pleading me to simply stop still and notice. The decor of four sweet girls feels like clutter and background noise to the foreground of "me" and "mine". Sudden territorial instincts bare their teeth. I thought these nets had fallen away since I'd caught that big fish. I wake up wishing it was time to go to bed, disinterested in the day. Grasping for "me" moments in the thin broth I've made for us all to swallow. Wallow in like an unmade bed. And I do swallow the stinging tears that fall down my cheeks as I crawl to my feet asking the same monotonous questions. Why is this pattern of feeling like I'm failing grace... His Love for me, ever repeating itself through the days like a faulty roll of film? There are the beginnings when I rise from a bed of hot tears and shame. And the middle parts, soft and full as a cool pillow. Where I lay my head silently filling myself with His forgiveness. Sitting there in the half light listening, waiting. My empty hands open, my tears cried out, my heart somehow healed in the baptism of saline. My body feeling like debris. Me the publican, unable to even lift my eyes heavenward.

Oh how the earth tugs. How it's gravity pulls me down. Yes, something deep within me remembers deep that I'm made of nothing but dust and water. Substance of the fields that grow both wheat and weeds. Yet the weeds take no careful hand to help them grow, the wheat, a little more so. I am clay. Fragmented from being hardened, moistened, shaped and broken over and over again. Has the Potter been trying to fashion me into a golden chalice for so long ?.... Still here I am a breaking, leaking, earthen pot. Since from the muddy ground I emerge once again. Dust myself down, allow the stains to evaporate into His light once more. How hard it is for a hurting heart to let go of the mess. To let Him just carry the burden, wash my feet, Heal my heart. And every time I am sure my vision is secure. Till once again I falter and fall. My King, you fell three times, yet I haven't stopped falling since we met. Both in love with you and over myself. I'm such an obstacle aren't I. It's not you. It's me. I quietly pray soft as a whisper, that somehow through it all, you are working in me still. Through these falterings, falls, tears, embraces, faltering falls again. Maybe that is what Hope is for.

 

Hope that the brokenness in me can be worked into good once I turn my face toward You again God. Doesn't good solid clay need a little tempering sand and grit to keep it strong? It's what I've heard. Maybe my "temper" will be the humility I've needed for the alchemy to happen. And one day this grit, dust, ashes, water of a soul will become gold in Your Hands.

  "To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that he might be glorified."

  Part of Imperfect Prose Thursday over at In the Hush of the Moon