Her hands take the earth and model a functional beauty--her gift.
The one that keeps her up late at night, turning the kiln up at odd hours--1 AM, 5 AM.
And she sits with her works inside Harvest Hall and there is praising at the gates. The work of her hands.
At the craft fair in Seward, they serve a sloppy joe and carrot cake and good, strong coffee and chips for 5 bucks, and we eat lunch together. When she gets up to look around, and I watch her booth for her, people come up, comment on her pottery, and I wish I could take credit, but this isn't my gift. "My mom, she makes these."
A woman finds a Blessing jar, and Mom explains: "You write down your blessings during the year and put them in here. On Thanksgiving, you can read them."
She is an older woman with glasses, fingering the letters: Blessing. "This is going to sound wrong, but do you have any that are smaller?" The woman, my mom and I break the space of an implied sadness with laughter. Suddenly she needs a bigger jar to hold the birds of joy flapping around us everywhere.
A letter arrives with a divine calling confirmed. And my hands are shaking as I read the letter to Nora sitting behind me in her car seat. "That's great, Mommy. Does this mean we can get an RV now?"
This means so much, Nora. This means we can help in ways I don't understand yet. Whatever it is: Lord, let the work of my hands be worthy of praise at the gates, setting the wild birds free with love for the song and for their flight, which I am blessed to witness.