by Jill Austin
CHAPTER ONE
JILL’S STUDIO
The lump of shapeless clay hit the center of the wheel with a satisfying thunk. I smiled as I gave the wheel a few more kicks. The water from my sponge dribbled onto the formless, gray lump. With little effort, the clay was centered and I plunged my thumbs into the middle to form an opening for a pitcher I’d decided to create. Slowly, gently I pulled up the walls.
I let out a big sigh. I love this creative process. Transforming a worthless lump of clay into a beautiful, highly prized vessel has been a passion of mine for more than 25 years.
I’d had this pitcher on my mind for a week or more but hadn’t found time to slip off to my studio. Although I didn’t understand it, I had a sense of urgency about creating this piece. I felt as if I was birthing something. I smiled as I imagined the finished form, glazed white with royal blue filigree and trimmed in gold. Before I’d started forming it, I knew where it would go—on my mantel with fresh flowers spilling over the sides. In joyous anticipation, I’d already cleared the space.
I felt comfortable, even secure, sitting at the potter’s wheel, cocooned away from the world, lost in my affection for this pot. Outside my studio it was raining, and lightning flashes highlighted the rain hitting the skylight. Even the thunder claps sounded warm and friendly.
But life can be so capricious. Reveling in my work, I had no way of knowing that someone was dialing my phone number, and her message would send me spinning into turmoil. My fervency for this piece was so great that I almost didn’t answer the phone, but I yielded to an inner voice urging me to pick it up. Thick gray clay coated the receiver and tangled into my sun-streaked, blond hair. Brushing the matted hair from my face with my forearm, I heard the distraught voice of Jennifer’s mother on the other end. It was tragic news—there had been a terrible car wreck….
I hung up the phone, leaned my head back against the window and looked into the sky as rain washed down the window in streaks, forming little rivers on the glass. I slumped over and began to weep. After a few minutes I lifted my wet face upward and asked God, “Why?”
Jennifer had been like the sister I’d never had. We grew up together through grade school and high school. Her dad was an alcoholic, and it seemed as if she spent more nights at my house than she did at her own. She dropped out of high school with just two months left to marry a 27-year-old alcoholic! I begged, pleaded, and cried, but I couldn’t talk her out of it. Then she got pregnant, the beatings began, he went to jail, and she was a single mom. The last few years she had really tried to turn her life around. I think that being responsible for her sweet daughter, Carrie, had a lot to do with it. To Carrie, I was “Aunt Jill the pot lady.”
After years of making bad choices, even though she had done her best to leave that life behind, the destructive patterns kept controlling her. It seemed that she couldn’t escape, no matter how hard she tried. I spent years crying and praying for her, but she kept rejecting God’s love.
Unbelievably, a drunk driver had hit her car on the passenger side as he ran a red light. She was sober, but it seems that the demon of alcohol never let her get far from its wretched grasp.
Now little Carrie was teetering between life and death, and Jen, whose life was not in danger, had broken bones from her skull to her ankles. They’d both need surgeries, but of course Jen couldn’t afford health insurance.
Still sobbing gently, I looked down at the pitcher slowly turning on the wheel. “Here is Jennifer,” I said, motioning to the half-completed form, “and here is the world.” Angry at the world and at God, I brought both fists crashing down onto the pot. I scooped the mangled vessel off the wheel and hurled it into the refuse pile with the other discarded pots. I’d had a unique design for each of these pots, but they’d never realized their potential and had become nothing but rubbish.
Hurt and disgusted, I turned off the lights at the studio and plodded through the rain back to the house.
After washing up, I threw a few logs into the old stone fireplace while the kettle on the stove came to a boil. Settling into an overstuffed leather chair in front of the fireplace, I put my feet up and waited for the cup of tea to cool enough for a first sip. I tried in vain to push the image of the car accident out of my head—surely this hadn’t happened. Then I noticed the vacant spot I’d prepared on the mantel, and hot tears cleared the rims of my eyes and spilled down my cheeks.
“Lord, why does life have to be so hard? Jen suffered so much and now this. Why did You make Your people so weak? We’re just dirt and water mixed together and formed into fragile clay vessels. So breakable, so vulnerable—so expendable….”
I stared at the dancing flames and took a sip of tea. Ouch, still too hot! A bolt of lightning struck close outside, and the immediate thunderclap was right overhead. I took several deep breaths to help slow my racing heart and went back to prayer. “Oh Lord, what if Carrie dies? How will Jennifer ever recover? It’s not fair—life’s too hard. Sometimes it seems as if we’re all pots on a potter’s wheel spinning out of control.”
In an instant, the room became pregnant with the presence of God. Deep in my spirit I heard a voice, “Fragile, yes, but there is a mystery in why I created earthenware vessels. When they realize their great weakness they will call out to Me. Each one’s journey takes them through much joy and pain—but no person or situation is beyond hope. There is no tragedy that can’t be redeemed. I am the God of second chances, and I passionately love every one of My vessels. Each one is a unique piece of beautiful art, designed before the foundation of the world and fashioned by My loving hands.
“Let Me take you to Kadim, the land of earthen vessels, and to a village called Comfort Cove and show you another little wounded clay vessel. No one believed she had a future or hope either, but My Son, Master Potter, fought to redeem her as His Bride. This young woman’s name is Forsaken, but to Him she has always been Beloved.”
CHAPTER TWO
MASTER POTTER
The burning logs in my fireplace give way to an open vision. A quaint nineteenth-century fishing village appears before my eyes. Ships docked at the harbor for the night roll with the waves, and their crisp, white sails whip in the wind. The last sliver of sun is disappearing over the horizon. The cobblestone streets are deserted. Looking in the distance I see beautiful, snow-covered mountain peaks.
Suddenly I am transported toward the mountain range and to the edge of a jagged cliff which overlooks Comfort Cove. The low-lying clouds reflect the vibrant reds and oranges of the sunset off the white-capped sea below.
I turn away from the cliff and I can see an alluring and mysterious light flickering through a fragrant cedar forest. I know that my purpose for being here is to approach this brilliant, fiery glow. As I pick up my pace, the atmosphere becomes alive.
When I step out from the ancient grove I get my first unobscured glimpse of this old-world, stone and log house. A pillar of fire, terrifying in its beauty, broods over it. The pillar engulfs but does not destroy this mystical dwelling. A heavy mist of radiant glory surrounds it like a blazing whirlwind. A dazzling display of light and golden mist permeates the environment.
I have no fear; in fact I feel drawn to this fiery, yet inviting dwelling. As I walk closer I feel life emanating from this amazing house. With each breath of the heavenly atmosphere I feel I’m leaving my stress and cares behind. I feel like I’m home, even though I’ve never been here before. In the soft mist of this glory the whole world seems to be bathed in magnificence. I can’t wait to look in the window.
I stand on my tiptoes and my eyes are immediately drawn to a huge stone fireplace where a blazing fire crackles and dances. Each weather-beaten stone is hand-hewn and has been placed artistically on top of the next. Several large, graceful vases, elegant pitchers, and sturdy platters are prominently displayed on the great cedar mantel above.
I can feel heat radiating from the fireplace and I can smell the earthy aroma of clay mingled with the fragrance of brewing tea.
Everything about this house is bright, alive and inviting.
I force myself to look away from the fireplace to see the rest of the room. The back walls are lined with old wooden shelves displaying hundreds of vessels in different stages of completion. The ceilings are supported by rustic beams of aged cedar. Flickering kerosene lanterns add to the cozy, intimate quality of the room.
As I continue to watch, unsure whether I’m till in my house seeing a vision or whether I’m actually outside this fiery supernatural home, Master Potter enters the room and settles into His big leather chair.
The cozy fire from the stone hearth casts flickering light onto the dark waves of His thick, shoulder-length brown hair and His plain brown robe. He leans His head back and sighs, relaxing after a long, satisfying day creating vessels of destiny. The spicy aroma of freshly brewed tea tempts Him to another sip, and He slowly places His sandaled feet on a low wooden footstool. As He gazes over His cup, deep in thought, dancing flames reflect in His sad, brown eyes.
FERVENT PRAYERS OF THE SON
“Father, there are so many broken and devastated lives! Oh, how I long to rescue and heal them.” Master Potter kneels at the footstool, folding His callused hands. Soon the room fills with loud groans as His prayer turns to deep travail. “The enemy is fierce and delights in their torment. My heart aches when I hear their agonizing cries for deliverance. Oh, Father, bring those who are Mine into the Kingdom! Stir the prayer warriors as the battle increases.”
Terrible loneliness sweeps over Him. “The waiting is unbearable! My heart burns with passion for those broken vessels that will one day become My Bride. She will be so beautiful on our wedding day.”
Centuries of waiting and longing erupt into fervent intercession.
BEFORE THE FATHER’S THRONE
Master Potter’s fervent prayers thunder into the throne room. Heaven pauses, waiting for the Father’s response to His Son’s prayer. He turns toward the myriad of worshiping angels, all lovesick in extravagant devotion to Him. As far as the eye can see, shimmering light reflects from their wingtips, creating a heavenly rainbow.
This beauty realm of the throne room—with vistas of celestial colors, rare fragrances and surges of radiant light—fills the heavens. Twenty-four elders surround the great throne, arrayed in white robes and adorned with crowns. Each elder holds a harp and golden bowl representing heavenly worship and intercession. These bowls contain the prayers of the saints and are sweet incense rising up to the Father.
Four living creatures, full of eyes and blazing with fire, guard the throne. These burning ones glisten with dazzling light as they fly around the face of God. They are glorious blazing fires of worship consumed and alive with the fire of His presence. Lightning and fire shoot back and forth among them in magnificent splendor.
Night and day, they never cease their adoration and ministry as they receive greater revelation of His beauty. Overcome by each revelation, they cry, “Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty” and release the new vision of His beauty to the 24 elders, who fall down and cast their crowns at His feet.
They join all of creation in worshiping the One who sits on the throne.
Holy Spirit manifests as seven torches of blazing fire moving throughout the atmosphere in a beautiful symmetry of movement.
Millions of words and harmonies become one magnificent song! A symphony of sounds never heard by human ears resounds throughout the throne room. And yet at the same time there is silence. Silence, yet sound.
GABRIEL, COME FORTH!
“Gabriel, come forth!” the Father cries. From the myriad of worshipers, this glorious messenger angel steps forward. He has fine, chiseled features, long golden hair and piercing eyes of fire. Rays of brilliant light emanate from his heavenly being, and the intensity of glory increases with each step he takes closer to the throne. Magnificently powerful in spirit and body, the angel bows low.
“Gabriel, I’m overcome by His cries. I long for His presence.” He hands Gabriel a burning scroll of divine secrets and tells him to summon Master Potter to the throne room. The magnificent archangel bows again after receiving his orders. The Father smiles at his trusted messenger and motions for him to rise.
He signals His warring archangel to join them. The glint of Michael’s flaming sword fills the heavenly atmosphere with golden, reflected light. This mighty warrior comes before the throne fully armed with godly wisdom and experience culled from many ancient victories. Michael’s eyes are like pools of fire and his hair is light, almost flaxen. His skin is deeply tanned, a kind of burnished bronze. It radiates from having been in God’s presence from eternity past. He wears a white tunic with golden embroidery and a belt encircles his waist. Dangling medallions embellish his shoulders, signifying his governmental rank. “You are to go before Gabriel to Kadim, making a path through the lower regions. Hold the territory until he returns.”
Michael, wrapped in the fiery brilliance of the glory of God, summons his troops with a piercing blast from his blazing trumpet. Their war cry thunders through the heavens, “For the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, that His Bride might come forth.”
As each movement of his luminous wings thunders through the heavens, excitement for the impending battle charges the atmosphere and rumbles through the celestial troops. “Yes, that the Bride may come forth!”
ENTERING THE EARTH’S DISPUTED TERRITORY
Violent surges of glory radiate from these celestial beings as they charge from the throne room with blazing swords drawn. Soon they are slicing through the thick sulfuric atmosphere as they open a heavenly portal. Penetrating the human realm, the heavenly troop leaves eternity and enters the restraints of time.
Like a fiery ball of light, the soldiers cross from a realm of indescribable beauty and eternal harmony into a world of chaos, war and endless brutal strife. As the light of divine fire pierces the spiritual darkness, the angelic warriors catch the foul demonic swarm by surprise as they battle to enter earth’s disputed atmosphere.
Unsheathing their vile swords, demons spew out blasphemous curses that clash wildly against golden torrents of resurrection power. The demonic forces are enraged with the intrusion into the captured territory they consider their own.
Stunned to a momentary halt, the panicked demons are filled with terror. Fiery explosions erupt around them, blasting through their ranks and throwing burning, screeching demon hordes howling back to the abyss. Fiery prayer missiles from earth explode around them and wreak havoc against the satanic host.
Horrific screams frantically signal for more demonic reinforcements. Master Potter’s prayers have hit the mark, crippling the enemy and cutting them off. Terror fills the hooded eyes of the gruesome, diabolical spirits as the battle rages.
Suddenly Michael yells to Gabriel, “We’ve cleared the path, and I’m sending my best warriors ahead to take you in. We’ll stay here and hold the ground until you return.”
With long, golden hair flying wildly in the spiritual wind, Gabriel sets his chiseled features and noble face firmly in determination to carry out the Father’s will. Fiercely majestic, his appearance is disguised in white-hot lightning flashes. He leaves a trail of fiery golden light as his magnificent, shimmering wings carry him on his strategic mission.
MASTER POTTER’S HOUSE
Gabriel flies over the rough, white-capped seas that ceaselessly pummel the shoreline. On the edge of a jagged cliff, surrounded by an ancient cedar forest, sits Master Potter’s House. Built into the rock to provide protection from the raging storms, this secluded stronghold overlooks the quaint fishing village of Comfort Cove.
Circling high above, Gabriel sees a pillar of fire descending from the heavens. Like a bright tornado, it swirls around the house—a marvel of wind and glory. This mystery of heavenly flames engulfs but does not destroy the house; it is placed by Father as a hidden entryway into salvation, concealed within the enemy’s camp.
GABRIEL’S VISIT
Before the ache of Master Potter’s h
eart can be fully expressed, the movement of wings ushers the splendor of Heaven into the fireside room. Gabriel emerges through the fiery pillar. Overcome with awe and humility, the great angel bows in worship before his Master. The Potter quietly receives his praise and smiles at his unexpected return.
The fellowship of comrades in this most ancient of wars is instantly renewed as Master Potter lovingly touches Gabriel’s shoulders, summoning him to stand. Gabriel’s smile gives way to joyous laughter as he embraces Master Potter, the beautiful, glorious Son of God.
“The Father heard Your cries and sent me. The enemy, though surprised by our sudden appearance, was firm in its fierce resistance. When we began to feel the weight of the enemy’s detainment, Your prayers strengthened us for the final thrust into this cherished realm.”
“I knew the battle was raging, so I prayed on your behalf.” Gesturing to the shelves, Master Potter says, “The fighting has been violent on the Potter’s Field as well, but there are great victories. Many new vessels are lining my shelves. I have planned incredible destinies for each of them.”
“They’re beautifully designed and each one is so unique. In the heavens we watch with wonder and excitement as You mold the clay into Your own divine image.” Gabriel extends the golden scroll. “I must go now; Your Father has additional orders for me.”
A knowing nod transpires between them as the mighty angelic being turns and ascends heavenward through the fiery pillar.
Unrolling the parchment scroll, Master Potter eases into His chair and rubs His soft, curly beard as He reads. Sweet memories of intimate fellowship with the Father and Holy Spirit stir deep love and longing within His soul, and He places His hand over His heart and sighs.
