I held each piece in my palms, one piece at a time as if examining each piece.
“Read it out loud, ” said the potter. “what good is poetry if it is not read out loud? ” Scoffing he added, “It is no prose! ”
I picked one piece up and aloud I read :
Some things I’m going to do today
I’m going to look back tomorrow
And find them funny
Then I’ll ask God, why do I find these things funny?
And He’ll reply, ”You’re okay”
“Hmmm,” said the potter, urging me on.
I picked up another piece and again aloud I read :
Every child leaves a signature behind
A mark that says they were once here
That they had grown up there
Being upset over a child staining a sheet for example
Is as empty as getting furious over the natural order of things
haha “You see it? If parents are capable of overlooking the mess of their children, how much more capable is God!”
Picking up another piece, I read on :
I have often wished I could rewind tapes of time
That I could check in back in time and unsay that word
Unfall in that love or unwalk down that lane
Unbreak that certain plate or unbutton that passion, at that time
But it never happens
It is at such times that I know it is only God
Only Him can truly do all things
“And this is all my handwriting! In fact it seems I’ve been reading out my own life!”
“Did you think I would give you someone else’s life to read out? ”
I was so awed I wanted to take the pottery pieces home but I figured I already have my life.
On my way home, looking back for a second at the house , it appeared as though it was the one up for sale 😀
I blinked and saw it had been a product of my imagination, perhaps an aftermath of my magical experience some minutes ago.
A woman walked out of the house, holding up a clay jar in her arms, with a child tagging along, and I wondered if she was shown what I had been shown.
Then I thought:
Everyone gets to be taught
In a way they can uniquely understand.