Advent 6: To be the Maker

This weekend there will be piano babies and their families filling every possible spot in my sweet cottage, gathered for a piano party.

I promised there would be cookies, so last night I set to work.

I made the dough and I chilled it.

I got out the rolling pin and the flour and the cookie cutter and the mat.

I wrapped myself in my apron, rolled up my sleeves, and began to roll that dark cocoa ginger dough across my beautifully floured surface, whistling a merry tune. 

I was not far in when I remembered: I hate rolling out dough. It never works! It gets stuck on the rolling pin, and you have to sling flour everywhere and the poor ginger snowman loses an arm despite all your efforts. I also right quickly remembered that the feeling of flour on my hands makes me want to fall to the floor in despair. I hate the feeling of flour on my hands. It is the worst.

I was not far in when I noticed: This is not going well.

But cookies I promised and cookies there must be. So, I cast the rolling pin to the wayside and made a new plan. I took that dough in my hands and rolled it around until it was soft. I laid it on the mat and I prodded with the heel of my hand and I pushed and pulled with fingers extending every which way. I got that dough to flatten out, and I cut out beautiful little snowmen, and lined them up on my pan.

In a matter of moments, things turned around.

And I couldn't help but think of the ways that I continually let life roll me over, let it stick to me and rip off my limbs and strip my very soul. I couldn't help but think of how much safer it is when I allow Him to take me in His hands and warm me up. I usually don't like His prodding and His pulling but isn't it true and haven't I seen that His result is always better than mine, that when I stop fighting, just let Him have His way, it is the moment that Life is born in me? And maybe sometimes I look a little lumpy, but maybe that's just His finger prints, His way of saying: 

I made this lumpy ginger snow man, and let there be no doubt--

she belongs to Me.

Woe to those who quarrel with their Maker, 

those who are nothing but potsherds 

among the potsherds on the ground. 

Does the clay say to the potter, 

'What are you making?' 

Does your work say, 

'The potter has no hands'?

[Isaiah 45:9]