Potter's Workshop

High upon a hill, at the end of a meandering path, through the quiescent woods sits the Potter's workshop.

Seemingly removed from its surroundings, yet overlooking all the lands about, soars the Potter's workshop.

A beneficent retreat for the good, and foreboding tower to the wicked, looms the Potter's workshop.

Shuffling and shifting up the path, the Old Fool trundles ponderously up the way to see the Potter.

The effort, palpable; the pain, apparent; the frustration, inescapable; the determination, undeniable - with unwavering purpose the Old Fool treads.

For at the end of the path the Potter works, with a workshop door open for all who visit - though few and precious have been the visitors of late.

At his destination, the Old Fool pauses. He considers the wondrous promise of that open door, mourns the lonely lack other pilgrims, and gathers himself for the visit still ahead.

The trip has taken much from the Fool, though he wryly considers how shallow that reservoir initially plumbed. Believing his heart prepared, the Fool crosses that hallowed threshold.

As his eyes shift from outdoors to in, the Fool's vision is filled with the beloved Potter, quietly working at that unflagging wheel - as He was in all the yeserdays and shall be in all tomorrows.

There, at the wheel, the reason for the Fool's life, hope, and existence. The reason for this trip. The reason. The Potter looks up, His welcoming smile sparking warmth in the most gelid of souls.

"Welcome, my Son, my Beloved, my Handiwork.", says the Potter. "It's been too long since you've visited home. Come in, be refreshed, be rested, be halcyon."

But the Fool remains still, his strength expended. At once basquing in the comfort of his Potter's welcome, yet unable to proceed. He feigns strength and bravery, but only a moment.

Slowly, as if succumbing to the pressure of a suffocating weight, the Fool sinks to his knees. He reaches out to the Potter and cries out, bellowing with emotion but with a strangled whisper of volume.

The Potter rushes over, catching the Fool before that tired head reaches the dusty workshop tiles. "My Son, fruit of My Hands, I am here," whispers the Potter. "You are My design, My creation, My heart. Why do you flag and wax so morose?"

The Fool gathers himself, drinking in the strength that flows from his Potter. Recovering composure, he steadies his voice, and whispers, "This clay has worn out and worn fragile - brittle and thin. Though the soul was rediscovered through your latest design, robustness was not in Your plan."

"Your designs, always so perfect, what happened with mine? Was my soul so hidden, twisted, and scarred that a whole soul and whole vessel could not intertwine? Why do You...", the Fool drifts away, unable to finish the thought - unsure of the ending to the truncated question.

The Potter's eyes mist, His creation's sorrow His own. "My Son, why must you size yourself up by any mold or design but the one meant for you? Their tasks are not yours, your burdens your own. My design for you is ongoing, your purpose unfolding. Don't you trust Me, work of My own?"

The shamed Fool looks down, unable to meet his Potter's kind gaze. "Trust abounds, sweet Potter, but this thin clay seems untenable as I've run out of strength. Each day filled with pain, bleakness, and neverending fatigue." 

At a whisper, saline rivulets down the Fool's craggy face, he continues, "The brightest beloveds you've allowed me, now merely a fond, distant memory. My closest two friends are the Night and my Potter. My work, my tears, my long nights to ponder, my trust of you, Potter...these are the things that keep me afloat."

"My Potter, though honored by the worth you have placed in my life and existence, I cry out 'Unworthy, unable!'. Please, dear Potter, I beg You, implore, arrogate - believe less in me and retire this vessel! Receive me back in Your workshop, a completed piece, purpose served. Please dear Potter, Your vessel does beg with its last ounce of strength!"

With this gasping cry, the Fool now collapses - his reservoir empty, his piece said, his pleas expended. He rests in his Potter's care.

"My Son, My Creation, My Handiwork - you are My design, My plan, My vessel. Your strength is not sufficient for My tasks, but on your strength alone you don't have to rely. My Child, My 

Creature, My Clay, rest your head now, renew in My strength.", the Potter whispers.

And so we quietly leave the Workshop, the Potter speaking His comforting words to the collapsed Fool. Will He declare His vessel complete, a work perfect and finished? Or will He send the Fool back out down the path, a living clay, still being molded, refined? How this will end, only the Potter now knows. 

But as we move on, please take heart by this visit. The Fool may be empty, crushed, and fragile, but he is still the Potter's treasured creation. This wondrous workshop, with door open to 

all, will welcome you too. 

And some day, if you should chose to walk up that wandering, meandering path, if you should happen across the flagging tottering Fool on his way to retirement, take his wavering hand and join him across that joyous threshold - life's alpha and omega to visit the Potter.