As my heart breaks

A poem I found in my things, written last semester.

On the ground in the cold
I sit, praying in the morning light.
My alter lays before me
a meeting place,
a praying place.
My prayers are for my family,
for you, brother.

On my knees by my bed.
My stomach turns,
I weep.
My heart is breaking
for you, brother.

Here today, gone tomorrow
my alter is gone now,
temporary.
My heart is not.
It still bleeds, still beats
still loves.
Loves you, brother.

Words fail, spirit groans,
the Spirit intercedes
the Father calls
to you, brother.

Just Dirt

In the stone cold, dust bathed yard
the grinding, creaking, 
complaining mixer ceases.
Silence.
Then, it is replaced with
Slap! Slap! Slap!
Wet and cold
on cold and hard.
Splat! Smack!
Clay is thrown,
forced, abused.
But oh! how it enjoys it.
Back aches,
muscles strain,
transforming dust to clay.
Just dirt,
but so much more.
Cool, smooth, ancient.
It waits for hands.
Strong hands,
purposed hands
exhert force,
prepare it for use.
Slam! Whack! Whir!
Clay on wheel
Pedal down
Wheel spins, and hands,
strong hands
still hands
shape, guide, form.
At their touch it moves.
Conformed.
Slick, sticky, soft
it takes a shape,
a personality
and a purpose.
Dust to clay,
clay to stone.
Transformed.
This is a new form, but ancient
and endless.

A beautiful vessel

     Morning sun, morning shadow, morning smells wash over me as I sit, my window open just a little to welcome the fresh air. The sunshine is warm on my face, my arms. My hands are cradling my mug of coffee. The coffee is just right, lighter than Dad's, darker than Mom's. This mug has a character-and a name. It is my Megan Thompson mug. Its warm hardness is silk smooth to the touch. It is a gentle, healing presence in my stiff, sore hands, battered and tired from training and practicing to make objects like the one I hold.  They are weak and unskilled, but the mug I hold is a goal to strive for, an end to which I can fix my eyes.

     The WR-12 glaze over porcelain looks like wood right now, with a grain and places where it collected darker to form knots. Over it, with the sunlight highlighting its vivid color, is Georgia Red-like a surprise of blues and greens. Georgia Red runs-on this mug it pools at the foot in a labyrinth of colors. The depth and complexity of the swirling layers of color-blue, brown, black, green-is beyond me. The mystery of clay,of glaze, and a great fire, thousands of degrees hot, has produced this mystery of beauty that I am able to use every day. What a beautiful life, that and object of so much beauty can be used for such a mundane thing. I think that somehow this vessel transforms its duty into something more meaningful, as hands, morning-tired, cradle it in the beginning light of a new day.

 Now in a great house there are not only vessels of gold and silver but also of wood and clay, some for honorable use, some for dishonorable. Therefore, if anyone cleanses himself from what is dishonorable, he will be a vessel for honorable use, set apart as holy, useful to the master of the house, ready for every good work

 2Timothy 2:20-21