Muddied hands wiped clean, I duck out of the studio to drop my youngest at freshmen orientation.  In the passenger seat I spy no longer a little girl, but a young lady smiling back at me, mascara flawlessly applied, blonde tresses smoothly brushed.  Not too many years ago I watched a big yellow bus take her away to kindergarten.  And further back still, I kissed her soft pink cheeks and studied her tiny newborn face from a hospital bed, wondering which sibling she most resembled.  

How did we get to high school? 

Throwing an ordinary lump of clay like I’ve done countless times before, a handful of earth begins its transformation into a unique work of art.  My slippery hands roll gently over each piece; shaping, molding, forming, changing.  Dinner table chatter echoes in my mind... Graduate school & a change in degree... A serious relationship... College graduation... A youngest son’s senior year.  Scripture soon knits its way into my thoughts: “Yet you, Lord, are our Father. We are the clay, You are the potter; we are all the work of Your hand.” 

His tender hands eternally enfold and transform us into His beautiful creations.  The work is never complete.  Privileged have I been, co-creator alongside Him, forming and molding my children through all their stages and years.  

The first day of school arrives at 4:05 A.M.  I am up while the world still sleeps.  I start the coffee and step outside my studio.  Gazing up above me are billions of bright tiny lights twinkling against the still, dark morning: a sky full of tiny lanterns, palpable reminders of God’s everlasting light in my life.  His hands never tire, yet remain gently on each of us, His creations: molding, forming, shaping, changing.