KERAMOS

Recently, I’ve been made to notice, admire and even criticize an ancient writer, he lived over 2500 years ago, but we still come across his works and read them publicly today. I am talking about Jeremiah, he was a spectacular writer that aroused a lot of criticism in his days and even now, they will not let him sleep undisturbed in his grave. Someone described him unfairly as an erratic, even bipolar poet. I like his symbolism though, and reading a chapter in his book inspired me to write this. This is my first attempt at something like this, so please don’t jeer:

 

The room was silent save for the whirling of that ancient wheel. He was hard at work, magnificent feet peddling away at the age-old treadle, graceful hands shaping the clay, one on the inside, the other on the outside. I stood before Him- a chubby pigeon, self indulgent and slothful. I had foiled His plans, and effortlessly so, by simply being me. He looked upon me with eyes that should be tired but surprisingly were not, they filled, impossibly, with love. I hung limp in His hands, an ill-fated, beautiful water-pot; dented on the one side by laziness, protruded on the other by obesity. Useless, I feared. He purposed for me to be a water-pot, a source of living water for thirsty souls as they sat under the comforting canopy of a willow oak, wearied by their many travails under the sun.

A water pot I was, albeit a useless one. He knew my frame; He knew that I was but dust. He heaved the flawed pot up; to toss into oblivion I was sure. I lowered my head mournfully, only to snap it back up seconds later; the pot spiraled down onto the mold, not into oblivion. He flattened the clay out upon the mold, with sure, heavy strokes of His palm. I winced. A bruised reed He would not break; a smoking wick He would not quench.

His words echoed in my ears as He rolled the clay between His palms. A bruised reed He would not break; soft clay He would not toss… as long as it remained soft. I did not ponder long on them though; I hadn’t time to. He had finished molding the clay; He brought it up from the wheel, a beautiful jar. A far cry from the original master plan, but a beautiful melodious cry all the same.

I oohed and aahed, but the last aah caught in my throat as He placed the jar in the kiln. The love never for once left His eyes as He closed the door of the furnace and turned His back on it. I winced. As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten. Where did those words come from? I knew not. Nevertheless, they bounced around my head as I watched the flames of the refiner’s fire engulf the clay jar that was I.

For our light affliction, which is but for a moment works for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory… I still could not decipher where those words came from, but I knew whose they were. I hung onto them with every ounce of strength I had in me, my eyes never leaving the face of their giver. He smiled at me through eyes that were ablaze with fire and at the same time as profound as deep pools of water, eternally still. Not deathly still, peacefully still. He turned His face from me, ever so suddenly. I screamed in anguish, His comforting words drowning out as a result. The furnace seemed to be seven times stronger, the tenacity of the fire fueled by the enemy of my soul. I felt all the hate and heat that the three Hebrew children were subjected to. Only they were three, and I was one. They had a fourth Man walk in the fire with them; the Face I looked upon was gone.

All nerve endings in my body were alert, and all of them decided to send their pin like tales of woes up my spine at the same time. The jolts of pain culminated into a sharp, bright light in my brain and broke into a zillion shiny pieces, and then I felt nothing. I was sure I was dead, so I ignored the cool blast of air that blew over me as I rolled out of the furnace.

Arise; shine, for your light has come. How could I forget that voice that sounded like the rumbling of Niagara and the crashing of the Pacific waves combined? I opened my eyes to the most beautiful and important sight in my history: the jar sat on His scooped palms, beautiful and graceful. As soon as they settled on it, my eyes refused to leave the jar. It was so beautiful; I was so beautiful. I had gone through the rigors of the mold and the heat of the fire and I came out beautiful. My heart swelled, with fulfillment. But not with gratitude, an alarm bell went off within me. However, it was distant enough to be dismissed as nonexistent.

Look unto me and be saved. His voice came pealing into my ears again, shaking me out of my reverie. I looked up at Him, very briefly. For my eyes roamed back to the jar again and I thought, ‘I can’t hide here forever, the world deserves to see my splendor, for the earnest expectation of the creation awaits the manifestation of the sons of God’.

He smiled down at me, sadly. I had taken my decision, so be it. Why was He so sad? I knew. He would miss me, I told myself, for that is what I chose to believe. The truth, which I knew quite well, I pushed down below the surface, for if I so much as considered it, I would not leave. So I walked out of His presence, beautiful, empty. The world needed me.