In the Rose.

But now, O LORD, You are our Father, We are the clay, and You our potter; And all of us are the work of Your hand. Isaiah 64:8

They catch my eye. In the moonlight that glows against the night sky, I see them. Through raindrops that hit the pavement gently, they turn my head. As the sun beats down its golden rays, I cannot help but stop and look. In and out of seasons, in moments of my life, both good and bad, I recognize their beauty. 

They steal my heart, quietly and gently, most often when I'm not looking.

I love the roses that line our driveway. Sometimes a million colors are on display as they bloom right and left. Sometimes only the tiniest bud can be seen, because I am looking. Sometimes I completely forget about them, and yet they stay their growing so beautifully. I pull into the driveway, look to my right, and know I am home because of these simple and beautiful roses. There, they line the way in their deep reds, and unbelievable oranges. The soft pink, and pure white, draw me in. As buds and in bloom, these roses capture my attention simply by being.  These roses created so beautifully by their maker. 

Often in life we are given moments to stop and reflect, to pause for a moment and realize who we are, and to determine where in our lives we want to be going. My moment came as I held a ball of clay in my hands. Nothing special, just brown and soft. We reflected on the potter, we were His clay. And so gently I knew God was trying to mold us. But into what, I was not so sure. I held my clay for a long time, begging God to reveal His answer to me. I had no clue what He was making me, and that left me anxious. What if I had no idea how to shape my clay to reflect how God was alive in my life? 

The clay sat in my hand. Still. Shapeless.

And then God said, "I'm molding you." 

Into what? I desperately searched for His answer.

Nothing was coming to mind. I ran quickly through my thoughts, what was He making me? I kept looking; searching, panicking, throwing out ideas. What could it be? And then my heart stilled.

I looked down at my ball of clay, and in that moment I remembered the roses. The gentle blooming roses that lined our driveway. And God gave me my answer. "Danielle, shape the clay into a rose."

My hands rolled the clay, and bended it, and squished it together. I carefully shaped each petal. Brown clay, second by second, taking on a new form. I stopped periodically to see if my work revealed the rose at all. And to my surprise, it did. I added a long, thin stem and two tiny leaves. And I held the rose in the palm of my hand. This year, beyond a daughter, sister, co-worker, teacher, future wife, and friend, God was calling me to be a rose. 

So simple. So beautiful. So full of the love of God. Roses are a reminder that God has so delicately crafted every part of creation. And He has so delicately molded each of us. I often wonder if I am enough, if I'm doing enough, if I'm growing enough, and if I'm loving enough. And as I pull into my driveway after the world's longest day, or the least heroic moment of my life, I look over and see the rose. And everything makes sense. 

The rose is God's way of showing me that in everything He is alive. In my mistakes, weaknesses, my victories, and my joys, He is there. And beyond that, every single thing my humanity does to suck that life away, whether I rain guilt, or shine jealousy, or gleam with self pride, the beauty of the rose is still there in the midst of it all, radiating LOVE. 

I often pray that God would just make me STAND OUT, catch THE ONE'S eye, be the IT girl, and live the PINTEREST dream, but He quietly says to me, be you, be the ROSE. 

There's a children's book about a Bull named Ferdinand. Unlike all the other Bulls, who ran and jumped and bumped into each other, Ferdinand would just sit and enjoy the flowers. Then one day, a bee stung Ferdinand and the men picked him to fight. But still he was more intrigued by the beauty in the flowers that adorned the hair of the ladies in the crowd. Sometimes I feel pressure to be like the rowdy bulls, I think I have to do this, be that, say this, or act like that in order to be seen and loved. The world tells me to scramble, and plan, and work and accomplish more and more. But the gift of the Ferdinand is that he was content being himself. And he was happy because the men returned him to the field where he could sit happily ever after smelling the flowers. 

Ferdinand was loved not because of how strong he was, or how much he fought, but because of who he was and the joy he found in being that bull. And the beauty of the rose is very much the same, it simply blooms and it catches my eye just by being what it was created to be. 

I'm not anything more or less than what I am...clay in the hands of the potter. I let Him mold me and shape me. And when I do, He makes me a rose, beautiful in my own right, seen by the eyes meant to see it, and a living example of the love Christ has for each us.