Yet, O LORD, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand. -Isaiah 64:8
God is the Potter. I am the clay.
Sometimes it’s not easy to be a clay pot. But I am always blessed when I let the Potter have His perfect way with this lump of clay.
The Clay’s Story:
The lump of clay had been on the Potter's wheel for a long time. She was used to His hands gently shaping and forming her. She knew He was making her into a wonderful and useful pot.
One day, however, she felt His fingers poking and pressing in a different way.
"Ouch!" she thought. "That hurts. But maybe His fingers just slipped."
As the Potter's hands continued to press and push on the clay, she realized it wasn't a mistake. He was purposefully applying new pressure and working on the weak areas of the clay.
"I do not like this," she said to herself. "What does He think He's doing anyway? Doesn't He know that hurts me?"
The clay didn't usually talk back to the Potter. She had always trusted His gentle hands before. Finally after enduring what she considered was a long time of His pressing, poking fingers, she had had enough.
"Excuse me Mr. Potter," she declared, "that really hurts, and I don't like it! I don't see what good it is doing either. You really ought to stop!"
The Potter's fingers did not release the pressure on the clay, but the look on His face was tender.
"My dear pot," He replied, "I know exactly what I am doing. You cannot see from where you are that I am forming an intricate and special pattern into you. I know this is painful and hard for you to understand, but you must remember that you are the pot. I am the Master Potter. I am not making a mistake; you are safe in my hands."
The clay fell silent. She had spoken impulsively. Yet the Potter was not angry. He had answered her gently and kindly.
She heard His voice again, "Someday my dear pot, you will see the beautiful results of this momentary pain. For now, I want you to simply rest in my hands. Allow me to form you as I know best, and you will have no regrets, even for the pain."
The clay was still. She released the thoughts of pain and rested in the loving hands of the Potter.
The lump of clay had been on the Potter's wheel for a long time. She was used to His hands gently shaping and forming her. She knew He was making her into a wonderful and useful pot.
One day, however, she felt His fingers poking and pressing in a different way.
"Ouch!" she thought. "That hurts. But maybe His fingers just slipped."
As the Potter's hands continued to press and push on the clay, she realized it wasn't a mistake. He was purposefully applying new pressure and working on the weak areas of the clay.
"I do not like this," she said to herself. "What does He think He's doing anyway? Doesn't He know that hurts me?"
The clay didn't usually talk back to the Potter. She had always trusted His gentle hands before. Finally after enduring what she considered was a long time of His pressing, poking fingers, she had had enough.
"Excuse me Mr. Potter," she declared, "that really hurts, and I don't like it! I don't see what good it is doing either. You really ought to stop!"
The Potter's fingers did not release the pressure on the clay, but the look on His face was tender.
"My dear pot," He replied, "I know exactly what I am doing. You cannot see from where you are that I am forming an intricate and special pattern into you. I know this is painful and hard for you to understand, but you must remember that you are the pot. I am the Master Potter. I am not making a mistake; you are safe in my hands."
The clay fell silent. She had spoken impulsively. Yet the Potter was not angry. He had answered her gently and kindly.
She heard His voice again, "Someday my dear pot, you will see the beautiful results of this momentary pain. For now, I want you to simply rest in my hands. Allow me to form you as I know best, and you will have no regrets, even for the pain."
The clay was still. She released the thoughts of pain and rested in the loving hands of the Potter.
Una Vasija De Arcilla
A veces la vida duele. Otras veces no entiendo lo que Dios está haciendo o porqué permite que sucedan ciertas cosas. Algunas veces deseo poder estar en control. Pero la Palabra de Dios me recuerda lo que es verdadero y me ayuda a mantener una perspectiva correcta acerca de quién es Dios y quién soy yo.
Ahora pues, Jehová, tú eres nuestro Padre; nosotros barro, y tú el que nos formaste; así que obra de tus manos somos todos nosotros. Isaías 64:8
Dios es el Alfarero. Yo soy la arcilla.
A veces no es fácil ser una vasija de arcilla. Pero siempre soy bendecida cuando permito que el Alfarero haga Su perfecta voluntad con este terrón de arcilla.
La Historia De La Arcilla
El terrón de arcilla había estado en la rueda del Alfarero por un largo tiempo. La arcilla estaba acostumbrada a Sus manos dándole forma suavemente. Sabía que la estaba convirtiendo en una maravillosa y útil vasija.
Sin embargo, un día sintió sus dedos hurgando y presionando de una manera diferente. “¡Ayayay!” pensó. “Eso duele. Pero tal vez sus dedos se resbalaron.”
Como las manos del Alfarero continuaron presionando y empujando la arcilla, ella cayó en cuenta que no era un error. Él estaba intencionalmente aplicando nueva presión y trabajando en las áreas débiles de la arcilla.
“No me gusta esto”, dijo para sí misma. “En todo caso, ¿qué piensa que está haciendo? ¿No sabe que me hiere?”
Normalmente, la arcilla no le replicaba al Alfarero. Siempre había confiado en Sus amables manos. Finalmente, después de soportar el presionar y hurgar de sus dedos por lo que consideró mucho tiempo, había tenido suficiente.
“Discúlpeme, señor Alfarero,” declaró: “Eso verdaderamente duele, ¡y no me gusta! ¡Tampoco veo qué bien puede hacer. Verdaderamente debería detenerse!”
Los dedos del Alfarero no redujeron la presión sobre la arcilla, pero la expresión en su rostro era tierna.
“Mi querida vasija,” Respondió Él, “Sé perfectamente lo que estoy haciendo. Desde donde estás no puedes ver que estoy formando un patrón intricado y especial en ti. Sé que es doloroso y difícil de entender para ti, pero debes recordar que tú eres la vasija. Yo soy el Alfarero Maestro. No estoy cometiendo un error; estás segura en mis manos.”
La arcilla guardó silencio. Había hablado impulsivamente. Sin embargo, el Alfarero no estaba disgustado. Le había respondido con suavidad y amabilidad.
Escuchó Su voz de nuevo: “Algún día mi querida vasija, verás los hermosos resultados de este dolorpasajero. Por ahora, quiero que sencillamente descanses en mis manos. Permíteme formarte como conozco mejor y no tendrás lamentos, ni siquiera por el dolor.”
La arcilla se quedó silenciosa. Abandonó los pensamientos de dolor y descansó en las amorosas manos del Alfarero.
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