The Maker & The Clay

On Tuesday, my friend, Marissa, birthed her stillborn son. Afterward, when I received her text, I furiously swept the floor with my eyes burning and jaw tight.

I wanted to cry. I even went out to the chicken coop to gather eggs and cry, so my girls wouldn’t hear me and get upset. But I was just too heartsick—and, honestly, too angry at the senselessness of it.

The next day, my husband and I met Joel and Marissa in town for lunch. Marissa was pale, but otherwise she looked fine. Peaceful, even.

We discussed their experience over the past few weeks, and the months preceding them. The promises of God. The dreams. Trying to understand the meaning of each.

But while we broke bread and ate, the conversation somehow shifted to pottery.

For years, I’ve had the desire to make pottery but have touched neither wheel nor kiln. And then I met Marissa, who has a wheel, kiln, and enough knowledge to at least get me started.

That Wednesday, in the wooden booth, with the cold spring air whipping around outside, Marissa asked me, “Do you know how much strength it takes to manage the wheel?”

I had no idea. I’d imagined a smooth, tangible form of relaxation as I shaped the wet clay with my hands.

The next morning, as I was still asking God to help me understand the loss of that precious, stillborn baby, I opened my Bible and continued reading where I’d left off. The place was held with a thin silk strip. Isaiah 45. 

Verse 7: “I create the light and make the darkness. I send good times and bad times. I, the Lord, and the one who does these things.”

Verse 9: “Does a clay pot argue with its maker? Does the clay dispute with the one who shapes it, saying, ‘Stop, you’re doing it wrong!’ Does the pot exclaim, ‘How clumsy can you be?’”

Verse 18: “‘I am the Lord,’ He says, ‘and there is no other. I publicly proclaim bold promises. I do not whisper obscurities in some dark corner. I would not have told the people of Israel to seek me if I could not be found.’”

I read and reread, and then I got up and took a highlighter from the drawer in the kitchen island to mark those verses, as if tattooing them on my heart.

Does the clay pot argue with its maker?

From the beginning, of life after no heartbeat, Marissa said, “I am just along for the ride.”

She immediately surrendered to the fact that she was just a vessel in her Maker’s hands, and I believe this is why she had–and continues to have–such supernatural peace.

I had, in fact, argued with my Maker. I was not bold enough to argue when awake, but the night after Marissa’s stillbirth, I had a dream where I screamed and trembled with rage.

Subconsciously, I had created a list according to what I perceived were the fulfillment or defeat of God’s promises, and the death of Marissa’s and Joel’s son had added to the defeat list that I sometimes feel grows longer with every passing trial.

And yet, in His gentleness, in His goodness, God was bringing this anger and questioning up in my spirit that I didn’t even know needed addressed. He was drawing me toward Him, asking me to go deeper, to trust more, even if I cannot understand.

Fifteen minutes after I looked out at the gray Wisconsin sky–with my hands in lukewarm dishwater–and asked to see God’s face, I checked in on social media because of a special promotion for my second book, The Midwife.

Here, an author and midwife to the Amish, Kim Osterholzer, had found me through the promotion and, after a brief exchange, proceeded to remind me of God’s promises . . . of His faithfulness . . . of His goodness. And the beautiful midwife had not walked an easy road, but continued to trust:

Hasn’t this just been the most unlooked for thing, meeting one another? God is so amazing. Around the time of [my husband] Brent’s death, a few weeks before he died, we sang “Amazing Grace” at church. When we came to the line, “when we’ve been there 10,000 years,” it struck me – when we’ve been in Heaven 10,000 years, the minutia of our earthly lives will no longer matter or be remembered. How we looked, what we possessed, what awards and accolades we’d earned – even the number of years we lived (or months, or weeks, or days) won’t be worth a thought. All that will matter then will be, who’s there with us? The question will be, did we live our lives – however short or long – in such a way that others were drawn along to God with us? That realization provided incredible comfort then, and provided a fresh framework for living the life God’s given me to live since. It’s been so nice meeting you, Jolina. If we were together, I’d wrap you in a warm hug. Consider yourself hugged, and hug your brave friend for me. I know without a doubt that the tiny seed she’s sown will bring forth amazing fruit one day, but I know how it hurts to sow the things we love. Let me know if I can help in any way, besides prayers.

Reading her words, I thought, This is who I want to be. Whatever the future holds; however many more hardships I face, or those I love face, I want to continue pressing into the promises of God.

For I am just the clay on the wheel, getting shaped and molded by my Maker, and only through the heat of the kiln can I truly become the kind of vessel I am supposed to be.

Has God ever spoken to you through a stranger?

Photo credit: Cliff Hellis