Through the Potter’s Hands
I have been poor, I have been rich,
I have held love, and I have watched it slip.
I have known life, and I have met loss,
Children close, then distant—
a breath, a reach, a fading echo.
These are the moments that have shaped me,
some I recall with clarity,
others still whisper their lessons in the quiet.
Good or bad—no matter,
the vessel is still turning,
the hands of the Maker still pressing, still forming.
“We are the clay, You are the Potter.”
The spinning, I have learned—
the rise, the fall, the breaking, the mending.
The speed is relentless, the dents unavoidable,
but the shape is not mine to determine.
Only mine to endure, to trust,
to yield to the hands that know better than my own.
At times, I fought against the wheel,
clenching, grasping, straining—
only to find my grip was the very thing
that kept me from seeing.
For when I step back,
when I loosen my hold,
I glimpse the pattern in the dust,
the beauty in the breaking,
the purpose in the press of His fingers.
We never truly arrive.
We move forward, we fall back,
or we stand still, waiting for sight.
But in the waiting, there is learning.
And in the learning, there is life.
And life is seen through the lens we choose.
Some days, the lens is clouded,
some days, it shifts—
but if I step back, if I surrender,
perhaps I will see
what was there all along.
BB Grey--musings 
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