The hands molding me
Martha Olawale
“He said, “Can I not do with you, Israel, as this potter does?” declares the Lord. “Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand, Israel.” Jeremiah 18:6
It’s incredible what can come out of an unassuming, shapeless clay. One day, it’s all dirt, cracked, and formless; the next, it’s a priced centerpiece on a dining table because the Potter looks at it and says, “I can do something with that.” For a bowl of clay to become a treasured jar, it must submit itself to the hands of the Potter. It must trust the process it has to go through in the Potter’s house. It will be punched, watered, bent, trimmed, molded, and passed through fire.
The House of the Potter, who created the grandest works of art, might not be the cleanest to walk into because of all the unfinished molds on his table, floor, and against his walls. He might have streaks of clay in the wrong places and broken vessels lying all around, but he is nonetheless a creator of great things. It’s, therefore, safe to assume that a Potter is devoted to making His masterpiece as envisioned if the clay continues to be moldable. I live in the Potter’s house, so I should know.
The triviality of the human heart baffles me. Our brokenness limits us, yet we elevate our souls above the one God who holds it all: the power to make us perfect. We’ve captured and embraced characteristics and Valors that need to submit themselves in the hands of our maker. As clay in the Potter’s house, we are a continuous work in progress, and there’s always a hole to block, a bulge to smooth out, and room for growth.
Isaiah said, “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. It takes clay that knows its place to become what the Potter wants it to be. Clay, which assumes the role of Potter, would not just remain what it is; it would become drier and worse than its first state.
I am a willing lump of clay in the Potter’s house. I already know there is no completion on this side of Heaven, so before you count me out or define me as useless, look beyond my lumps and holes and see the hands molding me. Like a dry, unassuming clay in the Potter's house, I was defined as "Perfect" the day I chose to live at the foot of the cross and submit my life to Christ’s hands. I'm a shapeless clay in the Potter’s hands. You might not see it yet, but God is making something extraordinary out of my brokenness.
