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When the 1957-58 pandemic of the Asian Flu hit Wichita, Kansas, I caught it. I was in high school, and even though Wichita was a large city, the doctor came to my house—while unusual in that day and age, it had been the practice in the small Oklahoma towns where I had previously lived. Upon my recovery, the doctor and my parents convinced me that I should drop one of my academic courses since I missed so many weeks of school. I was horrified and initially thought this was a disaster. This resulted in my placement in an art class since it fit the hole left in my schedule. The art teacher had me choose three art mediums in which to design and complete projects. I learned to enamel copper jewelry, made several gifts from plastics, and fell in love with working on the potter’s wheel.

As badly as I wanted to “make something” on the potter’s wheel, there were very important earlier steps I had to take—in addition to sharing the wheel with another student who also loved it.

First, I had to take the hard, cold slab of clay and work it with my hands, called "wedging the clay." This process involved kneading it and working out air pockets to make it more consistent and workable. Otherwise, those dreaded air pockets could mar a carefully crafted vase during its final stages. However, clay is much denser and more rigid to work than bread dough. Thus, upper body strength is needed. Being weakened by the flu, I would have preferred skipping this step or having someone else do it for me. However, it was my project, and I realized wedging was a critical step even though my weak hands and arms struggled and cried out against this first stage.

Second, once the lump of clay was workable, I had to “throw” it onto the potter’s wheel, where I worked to “center it.” This critical step seemed simple until the wheel started rotating and I discovered my lump of clay was a bit off-center. With hands wet with water, I had to press the clay to shape it as the wheel revolved, but off-center clay caused my hands to wobble. Hence, my clay’s off-centered position would probably destroy what I was making if it wasn’t corrected.

Finally, the most delightful part—my wet hands working with what seemed nearly like living material. When I pressed my hands toward each other, the clay began to rise in front of me. If I placed my hands on the clay and slowly pressed downward, the lump went down and flattened out. I never got over the excitement of exploring what developed with the slow, steady pressure of my wet fingers working together as the wheel turned. Of course, there were times when things didn’t go as I expected, but it was a fluid process that thrilled me beyond anything I had done at that point in life.

Once I finished working, my project had to be cut off the wheel and set aside to dry, which would be the time to add a handle or spout if needed. The teacher judged how long to let it dry before firing it into what was called “bisque” ware. It came out of the kiln hard, rough, and porous. Now, it was ready to paint with glaze before the second higher temperature and longer firing to melt the glaze into a glass-like coating that made it waterproof and usable. 

Whenever the teacher fired one of my projects, it felt like I held my breath because I knew it could crack or explode during firing if it had too much air or moisture left in it. Even if mine was fine, another student’s project could explode and harm my work. 

Years later after I married, my parents bought and developed a small motel outside Eureka Springs, Arkansas, just around the corner from the Great Passion Play. Sometimes, when we would visit or be there to help my parents, we would drop by the Passion Play. I loved the Parables of the Potter program before the play. A tall man—dressed like one of the people in the Biblical era in Israel—would give demonstrations on his potter’s wheel as he explained parables from the Bible. 

The old thrill soared within me as I observed his strong wet hands gently apply pressure and watched the pliable clay take shape. Although I had read about how we are like clay in the Lord’s hands, the various stages suddenly made sense as I watched, remembered, and listened. Each stage relates to the struggles and difficulties in life—the kneading to become more workable, the centering and being shaped—all the while bathed with the water of His Word. Even the two firings of extreme temperature to make the vessel usable made sense.

Today, 65 years later, I still have the first small bowl I made in that high school art class. It reminds me of the thrill of working on the potter’s wheel and that I want to be responsive, workable clay in the Master Potter’s hands—regardless of what the future may hold, for He certainly knows what His end goal is for me.

"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, NIV)

 "Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything." (James 1:2-4, NIV)