I cleaned the mudroom/dog’s room/art studio last night. It was an absolute mess! There was green paint, pale in places on the wall I hadn’t seen before.
I remember the painting, large and vibrant sunflowers against muddy muted green.
My hands and my fingertips I’d used to create the raised center of flowers and then with sandpaper and a metal tool, I’d distressed the background, removing paint, exposing the old wood underneath.
Art is tactile. Life and God, too.
His hands all over our lives, we in His hands.
We, the clay
He, the potter.
Us, the work of His hand.
I thought of my painting style, a bit impatient, erratic.
Calm, but with fury in my focus.
The potter, though, has a gentle hand. The potter is slowly creating, no rush all rhythm.
Giving and grace-filled, a light tender touch.
Taking away, adding to or starting again.
A blob of clay held steady near the lap of the potter becomes a beautiful vessel.
Every circumstance, a question about what’s ahead, whether happy, disappointing, or unfolding is a molding of me.
If I truly believe God’s hand is ever on my life, then I’ll not be afraid.
I’ll not worry.
I’ll not live with the anxiety that compels me to know everything all the time.
I’ll stay there, okay in not knowing all, His potter hands on my life, my heart and I’ll surrender.
I’ll sit still there, accepting what He has in mind for me, for those I love, all vessels made from clay into a beautiful design of the hands of the potter.
Yet you, Lord, are our Father.
We are the clay, you are the potter;
we are all the work of your hand. Isaiah 64:8