The Value of Small

Imagine the known world as it was the day Jesus was born. It certainly was smaller, much of it remaining to be discovered. It was clearly less hyper-spectacular, compared to this modern age, for sure. 

The Christmas Story, as it has been passed down generation to generation, leaves out a few small, utilitarian details for the sake of not messing with the big beautiful picture but those particulars did/do matter - in the big scheme of things anyway. 

Those not-so-pretty tiny pieces all came together one by one to write the greatest story ever told.

Taking Mary’s POV, imagine being huge pregnant and straddling a donkey on a miserable trek across a wilderness to find yourself sheltered in a stable. Now imagine you go into labor. Whoa. The donkey ride alone might be considered a cause to effect. Was there a moment when she wondered what she had gotten herself into? Was that how she envisioned giving birth to the Son of God? 

When the long promised day came for God’s Son to enter the world, considering the omnipotence of the Author, it could have been a massive production with flash and thunder for all the world to see. Though the angels appearing to the shepherds was a big deal still it was a private concert. The star that guided the wisemen was likely seen by others who might have taken a second glance and wondered but had no clue what it meant. They might have squinted at it momentarily and then resumed the tedium of living, completely oblivious to the significance of the sky light that guided noblemen to the obscure, humbly orchestrated, birth of a child. 

This ostensibly keyed down moment, that would completely alter the balance of time, is a classic example of how small is a highly under-rated adjective. Which makes it all the more confounding when one notes that God often does use small in very big ways. Imagine the shock of Anton van Leeuwenhoek (1632-1723) viewing through his newly invented microscope for the first time at wiggling living things theretofore never seen or considered to exist. 

Even in this era of all things big, small remains significant. 

Every day we are presented with opportunities to do the smallest thing that could be the beginning of a whole new deal. A kind word, a hardly noticeable putting out of a bit of extra effort, an encouragement, a gift of listening. Two dollars in a Salvation Army kettle. A prayer.

A small hand up when all hope is lost. 

Because we never expect dynamic results from all things small in our day to day existence and because we are deeply influenced by this ‘go big’ age, we lean toward going for the all or nothing show, the flash and boom that will likely garner the largest attention and reaction. And for that miscalculation we often lose out on being the unseen impetus for that which could be seen to actually happen.

History is replete with recollections about turning points, discoveries, and unchartered territories conquered, mapped and claimed. But records skip over the smallest moves made by individuals that were instrumental in changing the course of humankind’s journey from there to here and beyond. 

Everything is made of something. All things, whether seen or unseen, come together to make up the whole. Since God is in charge of time and size, we ought to reconsider how enormous that which is deemed unimportant can be and is most often the true cause of all that really matters.

Merry Christmas! May your new year be full of grand opportunities to be small. 

For Him,

Meema

(Colossians 1:16) For by Him all things were created, both in the heavens and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities - all things have been created through Him and for Him.

To-Do List

So. It’s Wednesday already. Sometimes I feel like time is a freight train bearing down on me, threatening to squash me on the rails. I had a discussion recently with a friend about having a daily ‘to-do’ list when we were younger. We both admitted we were so anal about it if we did a thing that wasn’t on the list we would add it and cross it out. 

Well, seems like nowadays I make a list that might cover what I want to do by the end of the week (not the day) and I may or may not get to it all - both items even. 

Of course, in this modern age it’s a fancier list - typed on my computer. I can do specialized itemization. I can designate the importance of a task by color or organize with • bullet point, or BOLD type or italicized. This enhancement capability does make my list appear to be much more serious and important and that’s really what matters now. After all, in the Matrix it’s appearance that counts. Right? 

Nevertheless, I concede in complete frustration that time gets away from me and the strikethrough function often gets put on hold. (I may or may not have stooped to backspacing to erase a task in order to make my list seem more completed but I submit that there is no proof of this). 

As I have progressed on my timeline, I have noticed that not only is the list shorter, it’s decidedly less manic and certainly less physical. Which, in my humble opinion, is a good thing. No more notations about building a cabinet or painting an 8‘X30’ mural. Some things you just let go without so much as a whimper.

In truth, my to-do list is less about things that must be done and more a nudge to keep my brain charged. It might include ‘practice Uke’ and ‘write’ and ‘read book’ and ‘do laundry’. One might conclude from this sampling that I am not a busy person but then one might be wrong too. Life happens, especially when you are close to your family. Things come up that do not make the list, ought not to be recorded anywhere, and therefore cannot be counted. 

I also have a back up (long range) to-do list which some refer to as a ‘bucket list’ but I just see it as those things I absolutely intend to do. Like - ‘finish the two titles in the queue’ and ‘finish soundtrack for the Alzheimer’s video project’.  

But I find that thing about time being a train is definitely a concern to keep in the forefront. When time goes from the light at the end of the tunnel to ‘oh my, it really is a train!’ one can’t squander too much of it making and checking lists. One has to just do and let the to-do list manage itself.

For Him,

Meema

Blame it on the Ukulele

As I have aged, having suffered through the first four stages - denial, grief, anger, negotiating, I now ease into acceptance with a small residual of resistance. I can’t seem to go gently into that good night. But then, I’m nothing if not a rebel. 

Nevertheless, I’ve been forced, by the mounting reality of my physical limitations, to at least admit that I am not what I used to be and those activities that were once second nature to me are now impossible if not alien. Not to mention that the bulk of my relevance here has greatly thinned out, which is as it should be, of course. It is the young who inherit the earth.

However, I am determined to retain my sense of humor through all this humbling and reordering of what I am and my current place in the continuum. If what I once was is now relegated to historical notes, fine then! I will not be a grump about it! But during all the rites of passage through each phase of letting go and moving on, echoes of deep longings linger in the shadows. My guitar ranks high on the list. 

I truly marvel at all the old musicians, the ones even older than I, still performing in front of audiences, still banging away with endurance, agility and the skills fine-tuned by time. I was never a performer so I can’t speak to the drive that pushes one to that kind of exertion in order to feel alive, vital and relevant but I well understand the compulsion to make music.

My decision to end the four decade love affair with my guitar was because my beloved Conrad, the dear friend that gave me precious bits of time to regenerate and refill my well during the manic child rearing years, suddenly got bigger and heavier. It’s a mystery for sure.

For that reason and advancing arthritis in my hands, I gave up playing and eventually the poor old thing needed repair anyway and slept forlorn on a shelf in the basement under a blanket of dust. And then, one day, my son, in the dearest of loving gestures, sneaked it out and had it repaired to surprise me for a Mother’s Day. That reunion, that first time, after years of silence, when I formed a chord and heard that distinct ring of the strings, I was awash with emotions that threatened to drown me. 

However, as wonderful as it was to have my guitar back, there was no way to deny that the years, having taken their toll, demanded that I stop trying to regenerate what once was so easy and now is not. With somber resolve, I decided to give it to my son who is now the keeper of the instrument and the forty years of memories it represents. 

But, again, rebel that I am, I’ve never been a quitter. So, still haunted, by the need to make music, I tried to compromise my limited skills with a lap dulcimer and then an electronic guitar thingy that sounded more like a toy electronic autoharp. 

Meh. Did not quite fill the need for strings and chords and picking. Or something.

>> Here’s where I’m going to insert that God does know what we need and He often, with amazing grace, provides it in the strangest of ways even when we didn’t think to pray for it.<< 

One day, meandering through a local flea market, I stopped at a booth that featured small instruments. Hanging high up on the side I spotted a ukulele. Four strings. Small. Easy to hold. I took it down and strummed it lightly and I swear I heard an old familiar call to which I responded - and took it home.

Amazing the change in perspective a new learning curve can generate in an old mind and bent fingers. 

I’m well aware my family gets a big kick out of me. I understand that stories told about me are the source of much laughter and I’m good with that. Further, I often do and say things to instigate amusement, having always maintained that I hope when I go I can leave ‘em laughin’.

But I also secretly relish that they don’t have to know everything there is to know about me, and actually can’t.  After all, they only know me based on our familial relationship from the moment of their beginning. Thus they don’t know the me who was long before they were. They don’t know the young woman who needed beyond reason to create music even if no one else listened or heard, who didn’t need or want cheering audiences, record deals or worldly acclaim. 

...the girl who wanted to turn her poems into lyrics, to lose herself, for her reasons, in music that only she could appreciate.

When my daughter asked me why I started my diet again and walking every day, I knew the core answer would be too long and/or boring so I cut to the chase: 

“It’s because of the ukulele,” I replied.

I’ve been told there was much raucous hooting and knee slapping over that one, which, I admit, makes me smile real big as well. 

For Him,

Meema

In Memoriam

When I have a thing to say I can usually find the words to express it. I wasn’t sure I could write this one though. One thing I do know, regardless all the things I do not know or am not, I am a writer. The qualifier of good or bad is subjective and depends on who is critiquing. So good, bad, or ugly, write I must. The reason(s) why I struggled to pull this post together are many and are woven as tightly together as the weft and warp of a swatch of silk. 

I met Marian Clark in 1975 when my oldest daughter wanted to join Camp Fire Girls. Marian was the group leader of the third grade Blue Birds. The girls had such a wonderful year exploring and learning under Marian’s enthusiastic guidance I was honored when she asked if I would like to be her assistant as the girls advanced to the next level in fourth grade. 

Marian was one of a kind. Always positive, always looking to learn and teach. She was certainly my mentor during the ten years I assisted her with the Camp Fire group. While the girls were growing up and learning, experiencing so much, I was too. The first camp out at Camp Waluhili has a revered spot in my long term memory. I had no idea what I was doing but Marian guided us through each step of the experience from building a fire in a misting rain to cooking on a homemade tin can stove top. 

Though it may be cliche to say I could fill a book with the memories of those years, it is also quite true. One time stands out though. It was after we had all become seasoned campers and the girls were mostly in charge, so Marian and I could kick back a little. We were in one of the newer cabins at our final Horizon camp out weekend playing Spoons in a circle on the floor. At one point, in the frenzied moment of spirited play, Marian, who was always a model of decorum, lost her mind and climbed up in the middle of one of the girls to grab a card. Laughing so loudly, disturbing the peace, we were paid a visit by Miss Peggy who issued a stern warning for us to honor lights out. We dutifully went to bed, stifling our giggles, but I fell asleep savoring that moment - our last camp out with the girls on the verge of stepping into their adult lives. Exciting, rewarding and bittersweet all in one mess of emotion. 

Life whizzes by in a blur most of the time and memories of the people and events that shaped us can fade. But I will never forget Marian Clark and all the ways she influenced my life. Heaven has gained an amazing teacher. 

I still have the songs we wrote around the camp fire in my now ancient song binder. This one is dated 1979:

Wood smoke drifting in the air

Voices harmonize

Golden memories that we share

Cherished all our lives

Camp Waluhili

We love you

Camp Waluhili

We will be true

The hoot owl watches as we learn

The wonders of these things

We watch the gentle fire burn

And quietly we sing

Camp Waluhili

We love you

Camp Waluhili

We will be true

Peaceful moments, laughter, fun

Each joy that we recall

But through the years they blend to one

Waluhili is it all

Camp Waluhili

we love you

Camp Waluhili

We will be true

Somewhere in the middle of all this there might be a thread of facing my own mortality at this stage of my own timeline and all those things done or not done, opportunities blown, which make up the sum of my rewards awaiting me. 

Rest in peace, Marian, you more than earned all of the jewels in your crown.

For Him,

Meema

Grateful

For as long as my children have been grown and have had children of their own, we have had to be flexible at the holidays because of individual schedules and other family commitments. We’ve gathered to celebrate Christmas as early as December 11th and as late as December 29th. The day on the calendar was not as important as our being together so we made the calendar a somewhat fluid concept. 

Same with more than two dozen Thanksgivings. Some on the actual day, but just as many on another. Sometimes it’s a huge crowd, sometimes a small but elite group. Over the years, as our tribe has changed and aged, we’ve added and subtracted to our numbers with the inevitabilities of moves, marriage, divorce, births and deaths. Regardless, somehow we always bring it together to acknowledge through our traditions that we are grateful. 

And grateful we are. So grateful.

Thanksgiving 2016 we pulled together as many as were able to enjoy our traditional turkey feast on the Saturday before Thanksgiving. Proving, yet again, that we are not beholden to a printed calendar.  On the actual designated day, as the tribe dispersed to celebrate the holiday with others, Poppy and I escaped to our boat on Lake Lanier for the start of a long quiet weekend. I planned a scaled down mock turkey dinner for us to chow on. Seemed like the normal thing to do, not sure why, likely more to do with honoring tradition than desire to eat more turkey.

As I was preparing our little representative meal, suddenly I found myself fighting off a tug of sadness. I soon rationalized it as empathy that comes from immersion in a circumstance. It washed over me that there were likely uncountable others who, without family to share the day/meal with, would be all alone, to eat whatever, endure and cope as best they could. I let the slideshow roll in my head reviewing our boisterous, happy, too-much-food to consume gathering on the previous Saturday and stood there temporarily immobilized in my small galley in a swirl of emotion. 

I offered up a prayer for those alone, no matter the reason. And then I offered up a prayer of gratitude, not only for the blessings of family and friends or for more than enough food and homes to gather to eat it in, but also for the opportunity that comes with those blessings abundant. Opportunities to share and care - opportunities to praise God for more than merely being spared some of the trials others face every day - but thankful for obligations of heart. The ability/honor to be God’s hands and feet to bless others.

After our scaled down repast we bravely sat, bundled up on the back deck. The norm for the busy marina is motion and noise so I’ve never experienced such stillness and quiet there. I could easily imagine the other dockers elsewhere eating too much and hooping it up with their favorite people as the two of us simply embraced the abnormal peace. 

Looking out to the undisturbed polished patent leather water reflecting a fringe of the last remaining rusty golden trees of autumn I understood, in the briefest flush of insight, how deep and wide gratitude could be. How being grateful is not what you are at the end of being blessed. It is the beginning of what you do to show it.

As a winter gull took advantage of an updraft overhead, questing for his favorite meal, I pondered my opportunity.

For Him,

Meema

Testing

When we are in school we study and practice to learn a thing. And then we are tested to  demonstrate we have mastered it.

And so it goes in our spiritual life as well. We study the Word, then we have opportunities to practice what we think we have learned. But then final test day comes. We are cornered, trapped at our spiritual desk, pencil in hand, moment of truth set before us to prove ourselves. Have we committed the skill to long term memory, truly learned the lesson?

I had such a test recently. As old as I am, I continue to be examined. 

Our chimney needed cleaning. I did a small amount of research and, of course, I opted for the least expensive offer. I had a coupon, which made it a bit cheaper still. I set up the appointment and the day arrived.

Two very nice men came and within less than a minute the lead guy informed me my chimney was in very bad shape and needed more service, a chemical treatment that would cost $39.95 extra and additional ongoing treatment with chemicals in a tube added to the next three fires, at $20 each, that he could provide, of course. In retrospect I can see the speed at which this diagnosis was made and then applied was orchestrated to prevent me from having too much time to think about it. That the whole service was quick is an understatement.

In less than 20 minutes, the two skilled workers vacuumed the ash from my fireplace, shoved a wire brush up the two floors of chimney pipe, supposedly sprayed a chemical up into the darkness, turned on the gas jet ‘to warm it up’ and left to go over to my daughter’s house to do the same thing. Not too surprisingly they found all sorts of things wrong with her chimney as well. When she called me to complain they had dropped ash and coals on her new rug and yet she had to ask them to clean it up, I started to feel as though we had been had. But when she said they were gone and I realized they weren’t coming back to finish the job at my house was when fury welled up in me.

I called the number to see if they were returning to put the heavy grate back, that they had left outside on my front steps, and recheck the job the ‘chemical’ had done and then turn off the gas. He answered and seemed shocked I had called and replied they were finished. I am not a hot head and never have been but I instantly responded in angered tone, asking him if putting the grate back was not part of the service I had paid for. He said, as though he were doing me a favor, that he would come back, and I replied, no thanks I’ll do it myself and hung up.

So this was the multiple answer test before me on my spiritual desk:

A) Call the company and make a formal complaint.

B) Put a one star rating and rant on their website

C) Let it go.

I chose C because deep inside of me there is a well of knowledge that has been building for seven decades into a fine-tuned instinct. This knowledge was not gained or is even knowable without practice. Lots of practice. Like doing a 100 math problem sheet or writing a 2000 word essay with proper grammar, the embedding of ‘how to’ comes only from practical experience.

The deep knowledge that must be tested in order for us to know that we have graduated to the next level of learning is revealed in how we respond but it’s also complex and the answer isn’t always as absolute as math or conjugating a verb. Sometimes the test is about our willingness to let go and let God handle the ending and sometimes the test is about our strength of will to stand up against evil. 

Discerning which is which is a language arts skill. Listening to and correctly interpreting the still small voice and then responding appropriately determines our advancement to the next grade.

For Him,

Meema

Hebrews 5:14 But solid food is for the mature, who by constant use have trained themselves to distinguish good from evil.

Inspiration from a Cemetery

It’s been yet another blurring-by week. Time wears a jet pack, I think. I worked on the cemetery directory book project for three of the days. It’s mind numbing for me, a right-brained artist type confined to manipulating data, listings of names and locations so it’s statistical information that I am trying my best to fit into the allotted pages/space with my creative muse in lock down. Every time I adjust a column of numbers the type jumps further down and then I have to go work on that accompanied by not a small amount of groaning.

Sometimes I must admit to the frustration of not how tedious the job is but knowing that no one really understands what it takes to get a book formatted other than the one who is wrestling with the type. You just have to take my word for it. Type is self-willed and ornery. Sort of like herding cats.

Thursday I had finished enough repair to the text to see I had some space that begged to be filled and I wanted something artistic for the cover anyway so I decided I needed to go to the cemetery myself and get some pics. The town the cemetery is located in is about 20 miles away and I had never been there so the first challenge was to find it. Once I found a spot to park and started walking around I suddenly remembered why I hate cemeteries. It’s so... final. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence. This one goes way back though. Been final for a long time. There are gravestones of soldiers from the Civil War. Imagine that! 

With no plan, I walked aimlessly, stopping to read what looked like the oldest stones. It’s not flat, quite hilly actually, so I had to climb and weave around a bit, hoping I would not stumble and find myself in a disabled heap in an old cemetery no one knew I was in. I snagged a few snaps of old markers still looking for the cover shot. Then, just as I was ready to leave, I spotted a bench sitting under a huge old oak tree and I knew I had accomplished my quest.

As I was driving home the words started pestering me, a phenomenon I am quite familiar with. Poems come. I couldn’t stop them if I tried. 

My sixth grade teacher, Mrs. MacMillan introduced me to the art of emotional storytelling with poetry. She did it so cleverly, teaching us by doing. She entered the classroom, after recess, reciting a poem, glass of water in hand. The woman could make taking a draw of water from a glass look like performance art. But it was her words that calmed us to silence. No other way to say it - she graced us. Every word issued with such mastery we were held like muted hostages in our seats. 

This word artist planted seeds that changed everything. She awakened something that beckoned me to create, to make something from nothing, to splash color into a black and white world, even though the world may not appreciate it much less understand it. The siren call was  - do it anyway. No matter what and just because.

Consider being 70 years old and just realizing that a single person, so long ago, was the one to credit (blame?) for your peculiar life path. 

As I drove home from the cemetery, the words came, and I thought of Mrs. Ella Macmillan, teacher, mentor, poet extraordinaire and in my sweet reverie, she was yet alive. 

So, apparently, even when the sentence is punctuated, it can live on to inspire as though it was not finished. 

For Him,

Meema

Just Had to Say It

I’m officially over it. So tired of the rhetoric, So tired of the puffed up self-righteousness. So tired of the claims that NFL players have the right to express their opinions, their right to demonstrate their deep concern for what they see as miscarriage of justice. 

Right. 

The most rascally, law-breaking bunch of neanderthals alive are incensed about injustice for - something or other. No one is really sure, at this point, what it is they are taking a knee for because the meme has been hijacked. Who didn’t see that coming?

Let’s get real. NFL is a business. Its product is referred to as a game but it’s just a business, a multi-million dollar one at that - not to mention tax exempt. Not sure how that happened. Who knew? Interesting that this sort of truth comes out in the kicked up dust that adds to all the violent coughing. Regardless, and nevertheless, NFL players are just employees of the company. That’s all they are. Highly paid employees who also happen to be entitled with full access to a very big stage and audience.

And yet, private businesses, practically unknown, like a bakery for example, that have to pay through the nose for the right to be in business, gets fined and/or shut down for standing up for their rights to express their opinions and beliefs.  

And so the hypocritical god of self-righteousness is fed and kept fat and happy. 

But I digress, continuing my quest to get real, while the employees of most businesses (Christian business excluded) are certainly entitled to their opinions and beliefs, they actually do not have the right to express these during working hours, if the employer has house rules against such an act. Further, and perhaps most importantly, if the rule of thumb is that a customer has a right to purchase a product without being preached to, then that rule must be applied across the board. Doesn’t this seem fair? Or is fair a concept only applicable to the self-righteously endowed?

But, you know, it’s all good so long as those who worship and feed the beast get to feel sooooo good about themselves. Because they are right, after all. Facts do not matter and actually get in the way when the self-righteous are laying sacrifices at the clay feet of their god. Rules can be tweaked. Words can be redefined to fit the narrative (cause) du jour. 

As my mom used to say, what goes around comes around, and it all comes out in the wash. Self-righteousness is but a shallow imitator, after all, and runs out of steam as the other god of this world rears its ugly head and roars that it needs to be fed too. That would be the god of commerce. 

In pagan circles I think that is referred to as karma. I, of course, see it as completely predictable conclusion because once you know how to identify the enemy, you understand it’s been around since the very beginning and pretty much sticks to a script. 

For Him,

Meema

Ordinary Clay

One of my favorite things about writing is that a wordsmith never knows how or from where inspiration will come. Several  exchanges with others in the past several weeks has caused me to pause for a bit of introspection. 

I conclude it’s time to confess what I discovered. 

I may not wear my theological convictions as slogans on a t-shirt, but I am about as Christian as one can get, if by definition one who believes in and seeks to follow Christ can claim to be. However I am also a lone wolf, so to speak. For reasons unnecessary to list, while I am a member of the Body of Christ, I don’t belong to a religious group/denomination/church. It has taken most of my seventy years to be 100% comfortable and okay with that.  Perhaps because the world has its own definitions of how to identify a Christian and I don't fit.

Since one is rarely an ‘outlier’ by choice, I freely admit I used to long for like-minded Christian fellowship.  But the longer I have remained in the wilderness of being outside of organized religion, first by being forced, then remaining by choice, the more I sought to learn, the more difficult it became for me to have meaningful fellowship on a spiritual plain. I certainly can interact socially, but neither can I share what I also cannot now unknow. This sounds arrogant but I do not mean it to be. It’s simply describing the difference between requiring nourishment by milk or meat. I’m in the meat stage now. 

Disclaimer note: Getting to this point in one’s spiritual walk is not inevitable and not a requirement for salvation. 

Think of it as graduate school. You have your diploma and now you want to go further. Growing in Christ is as individual a process as each person’s testimony. The conundrum is - it can’t be taught but only experienced. Though some truly anointed teachers, such as Tozer, T-Austin Sparks, Oswald Chambers, etc., have each put out the syllabus for seekers to follow to their own higher education.

I understand the human side is to desire to share and connect, to uplift and be uplifted, to maintain accountability to something. Humans are hard-wired for this. But some of this is just a natural yearning for confirmation from others, that you are on the right track. Birds of a feather flock together for a reason. In my personal journey, that I know has no real end until my last breath is exhaled, I finally realized that the only confirmation I really need is from Jesus. If I am pariah to the world, if I do not nor ever will ‘fit in’ as long as I know I am pleasing to Him, I can do His bidding and no one else has to see or acknowledge it. In fact, given the state of the world nowadays I think I would be somewhat alarmed if suddenly the world noticed or understood me. God forbid! :-)

When I was younger I assumed there was a specific calling for my life. As I grew up in the spirit I finally understood that I am simply called to BE His will. Every small, unnoticeable call that I have stepped up to is all that was required of me. It is my opus, my body of work. As simple as a prayer, as complex as a physical reaching out of a hand up. God is not bound by our definition of size or meaningfulness. It’s not the doing it that matters as much as the willingness to say,  "Here am I, Lord. Send me!”. This still amazes me.

It's another of those great mysteries though - to grasp that nothing we are or do matters as much as the act of simply obeying, even if you never know why, even if ‘going’ means staying right where you are and silently praying as you are prompted. 

So, here I am, just a lopsided, lumpy, empty vessel at the ready to serve, whatever that might be. Nothing grand or noteworthy. Nothing to share with or teach anyone else. But this, then, is also my consolation for lack of fellowship. Those several degrees of separation also protect me from the slings and arrows of the madding world. I am grateful.

Thank You, Lord!

For Him,

Meema

Romans 9:21 - Does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for special purposes and some for common use?