My Kind of Pot...

My dear friend Christy and I spent several hours talking in my car tonight. It was one of those talks where you find yourself searching for anything resembling a tissue in your glove box! There is no need for me to share the details of our discussion. Suffice it to say that I shared some things that were on my heart. Now Christy is the kind of girl that seems very comfortable in her skin. She's not one to put on heirs. She is who she is. You get what you see. And if she thinks it- you're going to hear it. I admire the open and honest way she approaches her life, as I tuck in my shirt and smooth out all the wrinkles.

Earlier in the week, I read a passage in Isaiah. "Does the clay say to the potter, 'What are you making?' Does your work say, 'He has no hands'?" Christy is comfortable with how the Potter has made her. She knows there might be a ding or two, maybe some rough edges, but overall, she knows Who made her and that's enough for her. I, on the other hand, am very uncomfortable with my kind of pot. I'm not fancy enough...or maybe I'm too fancy. I'm too big...or maybe I'm too small. I'm not very decorative...or I'm not functional.

Clay is an easily moldable substance...but I feel like after thirty one years in the Potters hands...maybe I'm stuck this way. How can I become soft again? I pray that God will make me into the pot He wants me to be...but secretly, I cross my fingers and hope for "urn" or at least "vase". I cannot seem to relax long enough to trust the fingers that are molding me. I point out to my three year old the masterful way that God created a butterfly...yet I cannot look in the mirror and say the same thing about myself.

This is just the thoughts of one pot to another. No revelation here...only confession with an intriguing (and somewhat startling) title.