It was well-known that the Potter's father proudly displayed his son's pieces throughout their fine mansion. The entire kingdom was filled with the works of the Potter's hands.
The little pot grew bothered by its own simplicity compared with the beauty displayed in the window. Why did you make me this way? it wondered. Why am I not painted with bright colors and intricate art? Why am I stout and sturdy, rather than delicate and lovely like the vases over there?
With pride, the Potter gazed around him at his workshop. The shelves were lined with his creations. Vases, crocks, cups, and bowls, each entirely unique and shaped by the Potter's own hands.
"All of these pieces I created with purpose," he said, motioning towards a lump of clay waiting on the kiln, "and my thoughts are full of many more, still yet to be formed. Some will look like the vases in the window; others will have different uses."
And why wasn't I made for beauty and purpose? How the little pot yearned for villagers to walk by and exclaim at its loveliness. It wished they would see the Potter's craftsmanship through its own colors and shape.
With care, the Potter set his vase on the worktable before venturing outside. He returned with a fistful of wildflowers. They fit inside the vase perfectly and lit up the room with joy and color.
The little pot was stunned. Even the homeliest vase in the workshop is better off than me, it thought. I am much too wide and small to ever hold wildflowers. And it questioningly wondered again what the Potter was thinking when he created such a little, plain pot.
Just then, the door to the workshop flew open, and a small child tottered into the room. He was quite young and still clinging to his mother's hand, but he gazed around the room with wide, eager eyes. "Pretty," his mother said as she gazed at the expensive vases displayed in the window.
The Potter smiled at the little pot with the love of a creator. "I made you for a purpose far more special than you could ever know. I made you to feed my children," he murmured and lifted his pot from the shelf.
With that, the Potter placed the little pot into into the hands of the young village boy, who exclaimed with delight, "Pretty!"
Yet you, Lord, are our Father.
We are the clay, you are the potter;
we are all the work of your hand.