I can be dead to the world when I’m in the studio. The work moves in a time of its own, and phone calls, meals, and outside engagements tend to slip away unheeded. In college this proved my roommate to rewrite my voicemail message, informing the luckless caller that I was likely “pottering about the studio or otherwise enclayged.”
But once or twice I’ve been caught up by something deeper than the rhythm of my work. It happened in my junior year of college. A beloved English professor died unexpectedly, and though I’d never had him (my punny roommate was the English major,) I was currently in a history class taught by his son. I wanted to comfort him. But what can you say to that kind of loss? What gift isn’t trite or contrived?
In the end I decided to make him a chalice. I meant it to echo a communion piece, a reminder both of our Lord’s suffering and self-giving. I started to throw. And as I worked I found it natural to pray for him and his family. The chalice became a layered gift, the work of my hands momentarily graced to share in a labor and a love far beyond me.
I won’t deceive you—that kind of clarity is rare for me. But I treasure it when it comes. And as I continue to grow as a potter and disciple, I hope to walk more in that way.
