hello to all! i know that it's been a super long time. i recently went to the american leadership and new england christian conferences and heard a really inspiring message that reminded me that God is still making me. in short, i think that i often feel far from where i expected myself to be at this point in my life and with that comes a thought that maybe God is done with me. i know that this can seem ridiculous, but i can look at the ways that God uses people in the campus ministry and feel like "those were the days that i was supposed to reach my full potential! and i didn't, so now i'm done". but that is not true. God is still making me into the women that He planned for me to be. even through the trials and the challenges, God is still making me. and He is still making you too.
i hope you enjoy this poem.
i'm a lump of clay.
a lump of dingy
brown
clay.
that is me.
a lump of...
WHOA!
wait.
someone is touching me.
picking me up and squeezing me
and ripping off chunks
and putting them where they don't belong.
"STOP!" i cry out.
but hands have no ears.
they just keep working me and working me.
and working me and working me.
and softening me.
and softening me.
and softening me.
and softening
me.
man!
i didn't realize how tough i had gotten!
i had no idea how hard i had become!
so
hard.
but getting
softer.
and softer.
and softer.
OW!
what is going on?!?
OW!
AH!
"STOP! PLEASE! i'm soft enough!" i cry.
but hands still have no ears.
they do not hear as they rip me apart.
replacing parts of me with other parts.
i thought i was soft enough...
"stop..." i barely manage
then up i give.
up
i
give.
"i'm a lump of clay," i say; then "No!
I am making you!"
the hands speak.
the no-hearing, part ripping hands speak.
they reply to me.
"I am making you."
i ask, "making me what?"
the hands go mute.
"making me what?"
only silence. i muster up my lumpy strength and cry out,
"MAKING ME WHAT?!?"
the hands stop.
relief from the pain of pulling.
the hands put me down.
i have been set free
the hands put me down.
i have been released!
the hands put me down.
i have been set fr...
fr...
fr...ee...what is happening to me?
what
is
happening?
i am getting harder.
unable to be worked.
harder.
quickly getting unable to be worked.
"Let me make you."
"into what?"
"Let me make you."
"into what?"
silence.
i had forgotten this was not a conversation.
hands
have
no
ears.
it slips out anyway.
"in...to...what?"
i await no reply.
then
hands
speak.
"Into more than a lump of
clay."
i hope you enjoy this poem.
i'm a lump of clay.
a lump of dingy
brown
clay.
that is me.
a lump of...
WHOA!
wait.
someone is touching me.
picking me up and squeezing me
and ripping off chunks
and putting them where they don't belong.
"STOP!" i cry out.
but hands have no ears.
they just keep working me and working me.
and working me and working me.
and softening me.
and softening me.
and softening me.
and softening
me.
man!
i didn't realize how tough i had gotten!
i had no idea how hard i had become!
so
hard.
but getting
softer.
and softer.
and softer.
OW!
what is going on?!?
OW!
AH!
"STOP! PLEASE! i'm soft enough!" i cry.
but hands still have no ears.
they do not hear as they rip me apart.
replacing parts of me with other parts.
i thought i was soft enough...
"stop..." i barely manage
then up i give.
up
i
give.
"i'm a lump of clay," i say; then "No!
I am making you!"
the hands speak.
the no-hearing, part ripping hands speak.
they reply to me.
"I am making you."
i ask, "making me what?"
the hands go mute.
"making me what?"
only silence. i muster up my lumpy strength and cry out,
"MAKING ME WHAT?!?"
the hands stop.
relief from the pain of pulling.
the hands put me down.
i have been set free
the hands put me down.
i have been released!
the hands put me down.
i have been set fr...
fr...
fr...ee...what is happening to me?
what
is
happening?
i am getting harder.
unable to be worked.
harder.
quickly getting unable to be worked.
"Let me make you."
"into what?"
"Let me make you."
"into what?"
silence.
i had forgotten this was not a conversation.
hands
have
no
ears.
it slips out anyway.
"in...to...what?"
i await no reply.
then
hands
speak.
"Into more than a lump of
clay."
