A Lasting Impression

pew.
    “Greetings, church.” Reverend Bunting took his place behind the pulpit. “Let’s all rise for the opening prayer and the first hymn.”
    Claire scooted into the pew and retrieved a hymnal, not knowing the words to all the hymns yet. As the prayer ended and the organ music began to swell, she joined in singing with the other parishioners, missing Sutton’s rich tenor.
    She’d mailed her letter to him on Friday, the morning following her dinner with Andrew Stanton, so she knew he hadn’t received it yet. It took almost a week for letters to travel between them—sometimes longer, depending on the weather.
    “Please open your Bibles to the book of Jeremiah, chapter eighteen. And remain standing for the reading of God’s Holy Word.”
    Claire opened her Bible. Jeremiah came right after Isaiah, which she’d been studying, so she had no trouble finding the book.
    She followed along as Reverend Bunting read aloud.
    “ ‘Then I went down to the potter’s house, and behold, he wrought a work on the wheels. And the vessel that he made of clay was marred in the hand of the potter. So he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it.’ ”
    A vessel of clay? A potter? Her interest piqued, Claire continued to follow along.
    “Then the word of the Lord came to me, saying, ‘O house of Israel, cannot I do with you as this potter?’ saith the Lord. ‘Behold as the clay is in the potter’s hand, so are ye in mine hand, O house of Israel.’ ” Reverend Bunting paused. “Blessed be this reading of the Lord’s Word, and our adherence to it.”
    A hush of whispered amen s filled the sanctuary as the congregation sat. Claire reviewed the passage as Reverend Bunting began to speak. This was something she understood. This struggle with the clay. Repeatedly in recent weeks, she’d tried to create something of worth. Something that would cause people to sit up and take notice. Like her Versailles surely would have done. She exhaled a slow breath.
    In a way, it was comforting to know the Lord understood her frustration. Only, she was the clay in this instance, she realized. And looking at it from that perspective made her slightly ill at ease.
    “You may be here this morning, pondering the Lord’s goodness in your life,” the reverend continued. “Or you may be wondering why He’s allowed the hard times that He has. When afflictions come—and they will—we should determine to accept them as being from the hand of God. For either God is sovereign, or He is not. He is either Lord of all, or He is not. There is no in between.”
    That same theme again . . . What Mrs. Acklen had said that afternoon in her bedroom weeks ago. But Claire was coming to believe that Mrs. Acklen and the reverend were right. Though it was hardly encouraging to think about a sovereign God intentionally bringing both joy—and pain. Something about it seemed false.
    When the reverend invited everyone to stand and sing, Claire was glad the song was one she knew by heart. She laid the hymnal aside and joined in. The pipe organ’s rich tones rose and swelled, and she closed her eyes, swept up in the music and lyrics.
    Would you paint if you knew you were painting only for me?
    Claire opened her eyes, certain she’d heard a whisper, only not knowing whether it came from the pew in front of her, or behind. The people seated in front of her weren’t looking her way, and neither were the people behind her—until she started looking at them. She quickly turned around, then casually glanced from side to side to see who was seeking her attention.
    But she saw no one.
    The organ music grew softer, and Reverend Bunting began to pray. Finally deciding she must have imagined it, she bowed her head and, in her mind’s eye, the image of a pot on a potter’s wheel came vividly into view.
    She could see the wheel spinning, and the artist’s hands—strong, and long-stained brownish-red—molding and shaping the clay pot as he saw fit.
    Would you paint if you knew you were painting only for me?
    Claire drew in a breath, hearing the infinite whisper with uncanny clarity this time. Only not with her ears but in her heart. Her scalp tingled, she gripped the pew in front of her, and yet she wasn’t afraid. On the contrary. She’d never felt such peace, or such love.
    She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t have to. She only put a hand to her mouth to keep from saying aloud the name that was on her lips. . . .
    Jesus.
    Later