When clay pots complain

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When we complain about our bodies, it’s the clay, whining to the Potter.

At some point in my motherhood, all four of my sons have come home clutching precious, little pottery pieces made with clumsy, unskilled fingers. With all the love in the world, they presented them to their mom and their dad.

If we had snatched up their handiwork and dashed it to the ground in contempt, their hearts would’ve shattered in pieces ‘longside the clay pots. And that, I can hardly bear.

Somehow, I’m thinking it just might feel the same to the One whose fingers are never clumsy or unskilled, but always create with the utmost care, intention, and love. Upon reflection, there may be a few of us who need to repent. To say (via The Cub), “I’m sorry,” without adding any ‘but’s.’

What our bodies have done is amazing. What our bodies can do is miraculous. The fact that God lives in ’em is nearly incomprehensible. But He does, so let’s give thanks.