My Rose (A Memoir)

Abba…Abba, Father. You are the potter. We are the clay.

            I started with an ugly lump of clay, devoid of shape or form. It was a slimy, disgusting thing to hold, yet bursting with potential. So when it was gently placed in my hand that afternoon in March, I could not help but wonder what I was going to make. It was my first time being a potter, after all.

            “I want you to make something with this clay. I want you to make a gift to God. This is what this is: this is your life. Allow God to shape it.”

            Everybody makes a pot, or barrel, or something. This is the Confirmation Retreat, Confirmation class of 2011: it is filled with people who don’t want to be there, and furthermore, who don’t know what to make of this whole clay activity. The retreat had been interesting, to be polite, thus far. To be honest, most of it has blurred in my mind. I remember a recorded testimonial from an old lady who had survived World War II, which I found quite interesting, if a bit long. The tape put most of the others to sleep. I remember going to Confession and bawling my eyes out, and then trying to hide the tears. I remember singing the Divine Mercy Chaplet with all of my heart, even though I characteristically don’t sing. Everybody makes a pot, or barrel, or something. I was intent on making something meaningful.

            And I had no ideas.

            I resigned myself to making a barrel. It was what everyone else was making, and I was fine with that. But I wanted deeply to make something that meant something, to make something that spoke to me. I knew that this barrel symbolized something along the lines of my being open to God’s will, or God filling me up, or some cheesy thing like that. I knew that it was cheesy. I knew that it was a cop-out, that it was a poor substitute for what was supposed to be a prayer. But I resigned myself to it, and started. What else could I do?

            I was folding the edges in to make a barrel shape, when I saw a shape in the clay, or the possibility of a shape. Perhaps I have an artist’s eye, but as I never have been able to duplicate the feat, I find this proposition unlikely. Perhaps it was something more that showed me this possibility. I am convinced that it God who showed me this possibility for my poor clay, my life.

            I made a Rose.

And it brought my soul to its knees with awe. How could I have fully understood that I was crafting the petals of my life? My life. My identity. It was imperfect, but it was beautiful. The rose was absolutely beautiful. I had never made anything so beautiful before. It was the first really beautiful thing I had made in my life.

That Rose shattered my world. It broke it into little tiny pieces, and formed those pieces into its petals. I cannot say how; I am at a loss. All I can say is that before that retreat, my life was different than it is now. Before, I was doing fine, but I was missing something. I lacked conviction, purpose. Sure, in my life, I had packed a parachute. I had a good job all planned for. I had it all figured out. Then to see this, what God wanted me to do, what God wanted me to be: A Rose, not a barrel; A living thing, not a dead one; A beautiful thing, not merely a useful one; A Saint, not merely a man.

That is my purpose: that He help my take each petal, each piece of my life, and shape it, refine it into a Rose, something worth keeping. It is my job, now, to forge my life with His fire, to grow and live and love. To shape my life in the same beautiful, unique, and special way: His way.