Particles of Stone

I watch her approach. She carries a blue bucket and wears a faded, straw hat that has unraveled around the brim. I watch her pick her way through the rocks and hills to where I am. I see the lines around her old face and the way arthritis has changed her gait and the way she carries the bucket. But she looks time seasoned, experienced, and I am drawn to her the way she is drawn to me.

Her hands are warm. Long, slender fingers wrapped in warm, dark skin wrap themselves around me. She is taking me away from my homeland. But I welcome her embrace. She scoops me up like a small child, checking me over before carrying me home. She has a plan for me. And although I know she finds me perfectly beautiful as I am, she is going to craft me into something exceptional. As the storms have come, I have softened. With the sun, I became crushable with little effort. Each storm that rolled through the journey of my life has cracked me apart, breaking me down into smaller pieces until eventually I am scattered and difficult to put back together. That is not what she sees when she looks at me though. Today, I am particles of stone. Surfaces worn soft from wind, edges remaining sharp and unforgiving. I have been tread upon, kicked into the night air, stirred up with the wind, and left to settle among the remains of myself.  I am not the foundation of a home, nor am I the protective covering overhead. I am but particles of stone. Until she came for me.

The woman with the warm brown fingers carries me away and has taken me into her home. She has poured river water over me until my sun scorched skin feels cool to the touch. Her patience leaves me just as I am. And in my thirst I drink up as much of the fresh water as I can hold, and I am replete. This vibrant, living water saturates my core. It has softened the hard places, smoothed out the cracks, and is slowly and gently transforming me into something undefined but definable - unshapen, but shapeable. 

Days pass, and I watch the woman with the long slender fingers go in and out of the house, arriving with more pieces of myself that I did not know were missing. Her house smells like sage and bread and I feel at home in her presence.  She sings as she works, moving in and out of the room and the house. I have learned the notes she sings and the reflection of frequency dances on the water around me. Even the water knows this music, and it seems to seep inside of me as well. I wonder if it will leave tracks as the wind on blowing sand, and I silently hope it does. Every few hours her warm dark hands stir me around, making sure that no part of me remains still and untouched by the water that is bringing me to life. Time passes, and finally the day comes, and the warm hands carry me out into the sunshine I know so well. 

She carefully holds me in place as she pours the water away. She fills me up again and begins to rinse, wash, stir, and swirl - loosening debris, twigs, unwelcome pieces from inside of me so that I am continually changing texture. We rinse, wash and swirl over and over until her fingers run through the heart of me smoothly. I think she is finished until her warm hands pour me into a sieve, first larger, then smaller and finer until my texture is smooth, all debris and rocks have been taken out, all contaminants removed. I am washed clean, and now pure. Only then can she move on to the next step. I have been through the washing and refining and yet, it is only the beginning. 

I am added to, poured into, molded, worked over, pressed together, pushed apart - I am pursued, coaxed, tested and spoken into. As I grow into the perfect mettle, my molecules dancing and organizing into the proper alignment and density, I become workable, more easily moved, more effortlessly shaped. These hands, gentle - yet firm - begin to build me into something with purpose and prose and poise. Her skilled fingers creating  curves and edges and a wide flat foundation so that I will sit firmly with what is to be poured inside of me. She designs me with color and meaning and prayers and breath and finally, a fingerprint - pressed neatly and deeply into the center of me. Her identity is upon me. No matter where I go, no matter if time and age change my colors, she has imprinted me with her mark. And in only moments, I am transformed from a shapeless void into a beautiful, hand crafted, perfectly unique, work of art. 

The woman carefully moves me from the stage of creation to the fire of adversity and pressure. She has created shape and structure and wonder that will not only withstand heat and fire, but will be colored to my unique makeup and material. She places me into the fire knowing that she created me with precision. I will endure and conquer because my purpose is built from this moment. I heat, cool, harden and the color shines through. My creator has brilliantly created a masterpiece with not only purpose, but now passion. 

                Day and night move by quietly. The testing is over. And I am now a vessel. I carry oil and herbs and the bread she makes. I hold the nourishment that feeds her family. I carry what she pours into me, and I become the deliverer, the messenger, and the keeper of living water. I am hers. She is mine. Perfectly created. Divinely gifted. Dreamed up and crafted from the earth with her own hands. 

And yet, I was only particles of stone. 

Isaiah 64:8... "... you are our Father; we are the clay, you are our potter"