by Kathleen Bennett based on Jeremiah 18:1-6

Why did the prophet have to come today of all days? My father and I had awakened before dawn, shared breakfast and prayers and began our work. I hurried through the cool shadows to the row of basins where we prepared our clay.

I’d dug the clay from the hillside myself. Father trusted me to select the best. It needed to weather for several days before it would be ready.

I divided the new pile into separate heaps as I did each morning. I placed some of the new clay into the first basin. One by one, I lifted each dripping heap from its basin and let it plop into the next tank. Then I climbed into the first basin, kneading the clay with my feet and pulling out the stones.

The clay became easier to work with as I moved from one basin to the next. I pulled the clay from the last basin and set it on the stone table at the end of the row.

The sky was light now, and I could see the fine texture of the new clay as I sliced through it with a knife. Sometimes it became too soft, and I had to add sand or crushed pottery to thicken it. This batch was perfect. I wrapped it in a cloth and carried it to my father for his approval.

But father did not take the lump from my hands as he usually did. Instead, he smiled and said, “You know what to do.”

I could hardly believe my ears. He had always done the final step—wedging the clay—himself. But today he was going to leave that to me! My hands trembled as I punched and folded the clay to make it ready for the wheel. I knew that if a single air bubble remained, the pot could explode when we put it into the fire. Finally, the lump felt as soft as Mother’s barley bread dough. I pulled off enough for one pot and handed it to Father.

“Shalom.”

Without warning, the Prophet Jeremiah appeared at our door. We froze, speechless, as he walked across the shop and nodded for my father to continue his work.

Sweat ran down Father’s forehead as he centered the clay on the heavy stone wheel. His feet kicked the lower wheel, building up enough speed to set the upper wheel whirring. I ran outside, drew a jar full of slip—the muddy water leftover in each basin—and stood behind Father, holding my breath. Father concentrated on the wheel. I let a thin stream of slip trickle over his strong fingers onto the clay.

“Enough.” My father’s voice rasped like the wheel. He cupped his hands around the clay and pressed them toward each other, forcing the clay upward. Then the worst possible thing happened. I saw the panic in Father’s eyes even before the clay began to wobble. The pot seemed to have a mind of its own. I shrank back against the wall, expecting him to throw the clay in disgust across the room—and me with it!

Instead, Father took a deep breath and smiled. With new strength, he compressed the same lump of clay back down onto the wheel. He centered it once again into a small, round ball. This time the clay followed his hands upward in obedience to his will. He let his thumbs press down in the center and, like magic, shaped the hopeless ball of clay into a perfect, round bowl.

For the first time, I noticed the crowd that had followed Jeremiah into our shop. The doorway and windows were filled with faces. Their eyes shifted back and forth between my father’s wheel and the prophet.

Jeremiah turned to face the crowd. His voice thundered in the breathless silence of the room as he raised his arms above his head.

“O Israel, can I not do to you as this potter has done to his clay? As the clay is in the potter’s hand, so are you in My hand.”

When Jeremiah was gone, I leaped into my father’s arms. He hugged me as we laughed and wept together. “What did he mean?” I asked.

“You tell me.” Father lifted the pot from the wheel and set it on the shelf to dry.

“God wants to shape us into something useful?”

“Yes.”

“But sometimes we wobble and He has to start over.”

“Yes, Son. And today, God used us, even though it looked like we were going to wobble, too, at first.” He winked at me and smiled. “Ready for lunch?”

	Q: How do bees telephone one another? A: They just give each other a buzz. Zephan S., 9, Kentucky Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe