The Potter and His Clay

My youngest son, who just turned seven last week, has a true artist's heart. He paints, he draws, he colors and creates, and now he even makes pottery. This is his first creation on his birthday pottery wheel. I captured his intensity in this photo, but wish I could have also captured his excitement. He is doing exactly what he was made to do.

I've been thinking a lot about this lately. How God created us with certain gifts and passions that tell us the path we should go, what we are made to do. It's what puts fire in our belly. It's what makes work not seem like work. It's what makes us passionate about certain things in the world.

And, yet, we lose our way. Every day. 

We say yes to things that aren't our strengths, or our passion, because someone asked us to serve (and they were kind in their request), or we got promoted into a job that no longer fits who we are. We become drained, but we keep plugging away. No intensity. No excitement in our soul.

Gretchen Rubin, who wrote a wonderful book called The Happiness Project, notes that one of the keys to finding more happiness in your life is to be serious about play. She writes, "What did you like to do when you were a child? What you enjoyed as a ten-year-old is probably something you'd enjoy now." I was so moved by this idea that I called my mom immediately after reading it to ask what I enjoyed at 10-years-old.

Writing. Reading. Playing in the woods. Riding my bike. Having friends over all the time. Laughing until I peed my pants.

Granted, laughing until I pee my pants may not be a career option. But this list gives me lots of food for thought. Writing does fuel my passion. Outdoor time is still sacred for me. Good friends fill my bucket up daily. God has been telling me my strengths and passions for a long time, even since childhood. When did I stop listening?

Wherever you are today, whatever your journey at this moment...take heart. You have been molded since childhood to become who you are supposed to be, despite the mess ups and even the unintentional successes. Try to remember what re-charges and re-fuels you. It makes the journey so much more joyful and abundant along the way.

{Scent Blowing Box}

This is my Christmas box. It's my hubby's unique creation made with love and lots of hours. It holds my two candles that I always burn from my favorite candle shop, 5B and Co., in Weston, Mo., with a hole in the middle for a scent-blowing fan. I, of course, can't feel the fan, but my husband assures me it's the gem of the whole project. I'm not so sure.

The top also slides off at the side, so I can place my matches and wick dipper securely inside. It's sealed pretty tight, so unless I bulk up on muscles in the new year, I doubt I'll be able to open it by myself. This is fine with me because the wires to the fan got tangled both times my husband removed the top to show me all the amazing things inside.

Do I love it? Well, I definitely love the idea of it. A person who loves me enough to try to make the perfect gift knowing his percentage of failure is really high. He does it anyway despite my lack of trust, negative comments (even in the blog-a-sphere), or irritation at his gift-giving history. I'm not sure I deserve that kind of love with my current Christmas attitude, but I feel honored that he keeps on loving me amid the beautiful peaks and hurtful valleys of our life. That's the really special part. The box is just scent-blowing fluff on the mantelpiece.

{One Perfect Gift}

My hubby is a great guy. Unfortunately, he's a terrible gift giver. I only mention this because Christmas is coming and, against my better judgment, he's convinced me we should bring back the tradition of giving each other gifts. I'm pretty sure I'm going to regret this.

Last Saturday, I came home from running myself ragged looking for his perfect gift and he was sawing wood in our living room (yes, in our living room, but I don't have time to even touch on that emotional hot button). He has cut, sanded and bolted a medium-size box together with a lid that slides off the top. Inside is a fan, secured with wires from one of our kid's remote-controlled cars. He says it will be my one perfect gift this Christmas. All I can think about is why anyone would need a fan inside a closed box. It's ridiculous and exactly my husband.

I still remember the first Christmas gift he ever gave me. We had been dating six months and it was our first official gift exchange. I opened the box to the largest size jeans I had ever seen with BOSS written down the side of the leg and a matching bright yellow shiny top. It, too, carried the word BOSS across it. It left me speechless. I later asked if he would mind if I took it back to the store to exchange it for something more my style. He let me, reluctantly, and he still mentions to this day that I exchange all his great gifts.

Oh, I wish that were the case. I was not able to take back the large frog figurine that shot water out of it's mouth while croaking nor the 20 miniature cactuses planted in the heaviest pot ever known to man. I kept those, but each time I passed them in the house I asked myself the same silent question---does he know anything about me? How is it that we've been together 15 years and he seems utterly clueless about my tastes, interests and wants?

That's why, a few years ago, I suggested we just focus on gifts for the kids and forgo our personal exchange. In some ways, he seemed relieved. I always thought he was relieved, however, because he didn't have to brave the stores to find a last-minute gift for me. I'm starting to wonder if he felt relief because he no longer had to carry the burden of my major expectations. I didn't want an expensive gift, or a hard to find gift, or an off-the-wall gift, but I did expect something even more difficult from him. A perfect gift that said he knew the very essence of my soul. Somewhat selfish and certainly unattainable, huh?

Since I've come to that revelation this week, it's been a lot easier to look at all the parts of my unfinished Christmas box scattered across the kitchen table. Frustration at the loss of a $50 "perfect" gift has been replaced with love and understanding for the unselfish heart of the maker. It's a big ole' mess, but it's mine. He's a big ole' mess, but he's mine, too. While I'm still not sure what this fan in a box is going to turn out to be, maybe my hubby is finally right about this one. It will be my one perfect gift this Christmas.