The Beauty in the Clay

Maya blinked, her throat tightening into a choking volley of unshed tears.

Sunlight streamed in through the large windows of the studio, and the other students murmured in quiet voices as they worked. Some laughed, some hummed absently, and some said nothing at all, content to revel in the joy of creating something new with their hands. It was a pleasant scene, except for her.

As Maya became more and more frustrated, her eyes grew rounder and brighter with tears. Fingers struggling desperately, she worked to shape something. But her hands, caked in the slippery, wet clay, were simply too clumsy to form anything at all out of that small lump that spun crazily around the potter’s wheel, much less something beautiful. Glancing to her left and her right, Maya saw tall vases and short, fat vases and thin, round vases and oval vases, all taking shape on the wheels around the room. Her own muddled ball of clay fell hopelessly apart at last. She took it up in her slender fingers and dug her thumbs in, enjoying the rush of hot anger which came pouring out of her.

“Maya?” A low whisper crept into her ear, startling her. Maya looked up, to see the professor bending low to speak with her. Flushing crimson as he eyes the mess of clay bunched in her hand, Maya blinked again, praying he wouldn’t see the shimmer in her eyes. “Will you stay after class for a few minutes, please?”

Horrified, Maya nodded. As the others set their pieces out on the dry rack, washed their tools and gathered their supplies, Maya sat motionless on her stool, waiting with despondent thoughts racing through her head.

What now? Why can’t I go one day without some monstrous thing happening? She thought miserably as she stared down at the flat failure cupped between her palms.

Mr. Herriot cleared the chalk board and wiped his dusty hands on a rag, his eyes grazing the room for things that needed tending. He frowned as he re-washed a tool that still had clay clinging to its surface. As he did so, his fingers caressed it lovingly. Rinsing his hands, he placed the tool back in its proper home and straightened his glasses as he turned towards her. Maya bit the inside of her lip, embarrassed to have failed so drastically in front of her young, inspiring professor. Mr. Herriot smiled at her, pulling up a stool. He took up the lump of clay that now sat on the stationary wheel. His hands kneaded it gently, and even when he spoke to her, his eyes never left its smooth surface.

“Maya, take out the Bible that’s in your purse.”

Surprised, Maya forgot her shame and stared at him widely. After a moment of hesitation, she bent and fished the small Gideon out of her bag.

“Turn to chapter eighteen of Jeremiah and read the first four verses aloud.” He instructed softly as he worked the clay into a round ball.

Maya licked her lips, shoveling through thin white pages until she came to the place he had directed her to. She read, keeping her voice as steady as she could manage.

“The word that came to Jeremiah from the Lord: “Arise, and go down to the potter's house, and there I will let you hear my words.” So I went down to the potter's house, and there he was working at his wheel.” She paused as Mr. Herriot situated the lump of clay back on the pottery wheel. “And the vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in the potter's hand, and he reworked it into another vessel, as it seemed good to the potter to do.” Her voice trailed off and she studied the words intently. Mr. Herriot stopped his work on the clay and looked up at her seriously, removing his glasses.

“Maya, I’m going to tell you something. And it is probably the most important thing you will learn throughout this entire course.” He said seriously. Maya nodded.

“Okay,”

He pointed to the clay. “You are clay. You must stop being so hard on yourself. When the clay doesn’t form the right shape, God doesn’t throw you away. He simply reworks you and reshapes you until you fit the pattern that He means you to fit.” His smile was reassuring, and Maya nodded again, her eyes downcast. “No matter what you do, God will not let you fail. Therefore, you can never be a failure, in spite of many mistakes.” He paused, his voice soft. “May I show you something?”

Maya dared to look up. She followed him into the back of the studio, into a separate room which was stuffed full of pots and vases, some simple and sleek, others intricate and elegant in shape and design. He led her to the far corner to a bookcase, and pulled out a small, somewhat lumpy, little clay pot. On it was painted, “I love mommy,” with a pink heart in the center of the phrase. He handed it to her and Maya smiled as she fingered the scratchy lines.

“This was the very first thing I ever made. It’s ugly isn’t it?”

“No,” She protested quickly, and then blushed as she realized the trap he’d set.

“You don’t think so?” Mr. Herriot smiled teasingly. “Of course you don’t. Because I was young, and it was my first try. And also because it has a deeper meaning. I made it for my mommy and I loved her with all of my heart. What could be more beautiful than that?”