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- Written by: Don Goulding
In my hands, you, O nation of Israel, are just like the clay in this potter’s hand. (Jeremiah 18:6)
A mound of red-brown clay spun on the wheel. The artist felt its slippery resilience gliding through her hands and the sweet mud drew a rush of inspiration. She plunged her thumbs into the core, an elegant curve of a wall rose, and a living pot was born. In a storm of creative passion, she caved in the top, and remade the piece into a better expression of what was in her mind. She only needed to smooth off remaining lumps and engrave fine details.
I was a blob of fear and ignorance, a debased toy of the destroyer. He pushed me into whatever shape he chose by his lies. But that blunderer knows nothing of artistic mastery, and I’ve quit him.
Now I’m on the Potter’s wheel. He holds my life between his hands with tender devotion. While I yield to his touch, contours of kindness and gratitude take shape. There is joy in his heart as he contemplates his vision for me.
Unlike the inert mud, though, I have the ability to pull back and harden. Character flaws emerge, and the Potter is forced to collapse part of his work. Nevertheless, with confidence, he restarts.
I have this wrong notion that I do the work of progressing spiritually. I try to pull myself out of sinfulness and into Christlikeness. In truth, my part is to rest in his hands and let him mold me into the shape he wants. It means less of me, and more of him. Less of my opinion, and more of his will. Less of my doing, and more resting in his word.
The Lord is unwilling to abandon the vessel he has planned in his mind. There will always be lumps to smooth, and fine details to engrave on my heart, but as long as he doesn’t give up on me, I’ll not give up on his work in me.
Prayer: Perfect Creator, let me remain malleable to your work.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
When my daughter, Ashley, was thirteen years old, we lugged climbing gear up the trail on our second attempt at Cathedral Peak in Yosemite park. We made a snug camp at the base and started on the spire before daylight the next morning. As we roped up and donned our rock shoes, the granite tower leaned over us.
“So you’re back. I thought the prior defeat ended this madness. Okay little people, bring it on.” The spire taunted us.
We climbed through the raw sun and howling wind. Fear, tears, and elation each took us in turns. We pulled ourselves atop the pinnacle as the sun hung over the horizon by butterscotch fingers.
Walking down the backside in the dark, we lost our way and bruised our feet. Champion that she was, Ashley endured the consequences of an overly ambitious father.
Of my climbing adventures, Cathedral Peak represents my meanest tragedy and my greatest victory.
Now God puts another monolith in my path—Jesus. The crucifixion of the King of the universe proclaims love until it’s an immovable stone in my path. There are only two choices for how I encounter this rock. I can lie down and embrace it, or I can try to run through it and be shattered. Every time I attempt to skirt around, some weird trick of editing makes the film loop, and I’m in front of the rock again. I’m forced to choose, embrace or shatter.
How could transparent me ever hope to break through solid Jesus? It’s a ridiculous proposal. So I stretch out on the rock, and feel its joy penetrate my being. Here is comfort. Here is foundation. Here is immovable promise.
Here also is my stone altar, and I’m the sacrifice. The rock died for me, so now it’s my turn to die for him.
This rock is truly my meanest tragedy and my greatest victory.
Prayer: Rock solid Jesus, I choose to die, and live with you.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
For the one who enters Godʼs rest has also rested from his works, just as God did from his own works. Thus we must make every effort to enter that rest… (Hebrews 4:10, 11)
Trash, tumbleweeds, and the smell of excrement blew across the new foundation. It was the end of the first day, and the cement encrusted teens admired their work. This would be the hardest of the four workdays—I knew because it was my seventeenth trip to build homes for poor families in Mexico. We were bone tired, with no prospects for a real shower for another week. So why did I return each year? Because it was the one place where my soul rested.
Real rest doesn’t come from sleep, entertainment, or vacation. Those things may rest the body and never reach the mind and spirit. I only find serenity when responsibility for life has been transferred to Jesus.
Each year, for the week I spent in Mexico, my agenda was shelved and knew I was where God wanted me—seven back-to-back days of dependence on him and release from me. There was finally some quiet in my heart.
It’s a nervy step to shut down the chugging of my self-reliance generator and switch onto God’s grid. I’ve known the racket of that tired machine all my life. The noise and fumes of a hundred worries evaporate as God’s peace flows in.
After creating the universe, God sat back and said, “It is very good.” Then he blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy. Through trust in Jesus for every facet of my life, I’m invited to enter his blessed, holy Sabbath, and join him in deep rest.
Prayer: Sovereign King, let me enter your Sabbath rest.