Dirty with me,
dirty with Your love for me,
You plunge Your tender hands
into the messy miry clay I am.

You grip,
grab,
grapple, and
pedal,
whirling me,
spinning and scattered
becoming
moving from
Your heart to me.

…becoming…

Becoming?
Mama,
with pain pulsing, and
Ache throbbing and
that void crying within?

Becoming?
Mama, with
the spin and
the pull…

And WET! Ugh!
You drench me, and
drown my
Objections
(which meander forth like mewling kitty-cries)
in floods of word,
of blood-sacred and red,
of water alive…

Til I am soft and tender too,
and moldable by You.
I cannot but trust You,
Mama, Faithful Potter,
busy and intricate,
tender and tough,
Teacher and Creator.

Yet Fire awaits, I fear…
no, I know.
Fire to dry,
to bake,
to cure,
prepare…
And then use,
filling and pouring,
and all the while

Feeling
Your hand on me, and
Your life in me,
and seeing flowers
bloom and blossom…

so my Mama,
take me in hand,
and redeem my days
in Your Becoming.