The Christmas Chalice

Her name is Jenny. She calls herself the midnight potter, assisting in her husband's business during by day, tending to all life asks of her then late in the evening, on those nights when she has enough energy, wandering into her studio to create pottery.  These times alone -- her hands, her ideas, her clay -- bring her deep joy.

I've never seen her.

It was a wedding gift from my oldest sister and her husband. I cherished it at first, displaying it in places of prominence on the highest shelves in whatever home we lived -- a decoration. I can't say when it happened, but over the years it became a common object, stored at arm's-reach level near our telephone. Home to letter openers, pens, paper clips, nails, coins, the plate beneath it catching the overflow of miscellaneous objects, it served as a receptacle. It was made to hold bread and wine (okay, grape juice for some of us), to remember the body broken, the blood poured -- a clay communion set, the word "Love" etched into the chalice, the words "This is my Body, This is my Blood" on the plate.

I hadn't used it for its intended purpose.

 One day I dumped the contents and scrubbed away the grime lining the chalice. People were gathering for a Christmas Eve celebration in my home that night. I desired to share communion with them. We read scripture then passed the cup and plate, each person dipping the bread into the juice then passing it to the next person while saying, "Remember Christ's body was broken, for you, and His blood was shed, for you." Again at Easter we used the chalice and the plate. I incorporated times of communion into my small group. Sometimes a friend and I would partake and together remember.

It became precious to me.

In May of 2011 my daughter Karis was married, and she used the chalice and plate in her wedding ceremony. After the reception, I unpacked boxes of wedding supplies we had brought home and found the plate but no chalice. Phone calls were made. The wedding coordinator had not seen it during cleanup, she reported. Neither had the church found a clay chalice left behind. I phoned the church months later, asking they please look again, but the chalice could not be located.

The chalice was lost, and I wanted it back!

I tried to tell myself it was only an object and shouldn't matter that much to me, but at random times I found myself Googling "clay chalice," "clay chalice with 'Love' etched," and various combinations of words with the hope that a picture of my cup would appear on the computer screen. I could find nothing resembling my communion set.  A couple of years passed, and my hope of finding a chalice like the one I had disappeared, until one day my friend Mary invited me to lunch. The small restaurant ten miles from my home had a shelf displaying clay coffee mugs which caught my eyes' attention upon my first step inside. They were made in the style of my set -- shades of brown, part flat, part glossy, with words engraved in them. With excitement I went to the counter to inquire about the pottery on the shelf.  "These were made by Jenny, a friend of the owner," the cashier said. "Here, you can have her business card."

I phoned Jenny and explained how I had lost my chalice and how very similar to the chalice her mugs looked. She requested I send her a photo of what I was describing. She emailed me back after receiving the photograph, telling me she had worked for a small business in the late 1970s that made clay chalices identical to mine and sold them to Christian bookstores. She had been an apprentice of the owner of the pottery business, Wally, and he had became a mentor to her, even welcoming her to his family's gatherings. But she had lost track of him over the years and had searched and been unable to locate his whereabouts.  I researched online and found an article about her mentor. Sadly the article was written upon his death, but it mentioned how to contact his family. Jenny had thought she would never see them again and was grateful to become re-acquainted with this family she held dear. We both sensed something special going on.

I offered to pay her to re-create the clay chalice. She said she was swamped with work and wasn't sure she could remember the process by which her creation was made but would play with some clay and try. Several months passed. I contacted her once during those months but was told she hadn't had much time in the studio and so far had not been successful during her attempts to make the chalice. When I thought of Jenny late in the night molding pottery, I prayed that as she re-created the pottery piece, God would meet her in new ways, that she would explore the mystery of Christ and be drawn deeper into the love of Jesus poured out for her.

Christmas was nearing, and the closer it became, the stronger my desire became to have the chalice. In fact it is all I wanted for Christmas, and my husband was willing to buy it for me. I am not a person who foregoes receiving gifts and asks others to give to charity in place of giving me a gift, but that year I truly wanted no thing, no object (with the exception of my restored-to-me chalice) but instead wanted to donate money to a ministry in which my church participates wherein dresses are sewn for little girls for an organization overseas. When young girls wear these dresses, which have a tag attached bearing the organization's name, sex traffickers are alerted that the children are accounted for and will steer clear of taking them.

It's all broken, this world.

But I desired to play a part in helping put it back together. My sibling who drew my name that year for a Christmas gift exchange gave to our church's ministry, as did my mom, my husband, and our children. I couldn't have asked for more. It was all I desired, to be a restoring piece in a place of horrific loss and brokenness. Fabric would be purchased, cut, then stitched into clothing that would provide protection for children. Packages of new underwear were placed into the pockets of each garment. Thank God for these people who are stepping up to shield precious children from unspeakable harm.

As I focused on the cup poured out to me, my desire to pour out to others grew.

I stepped out of my Sunday School class the last Sunday before Christmas, looked at my phone to find I had received an email from Jenny. She said the chalice was done and to please not pay her because it was an honor to be able to make it. She expressed her gratitude at her being able to reconnect with Wally's family and had planned a trip to visit them. "Just tell the cashier up front," she wrote,  "that I have your piece on the top shelf." I rushed to the restaurant, looked at the shelf to find not one but two more-beautiful-than-I-could-have-imagined chalices!

Years have passed, and I still can't quite take in the goodness God showed me that Christmas. I try, yet I can't. But the word settling within me as I recall the story of the chalice is "hope."

Hope that the lost will be found, that the broken will be put back together. The newness of that brand-new-sent-to-earth baby clearly screams hope, while the darkness of the cross screams despair, all is lost. But there's a cup and a man who filled it with his blood, a plate with pieces of bread representing his body crushed. He also is a midnight potter, working as we sleep, putting back together the pieces of us, lost and broken.

His name is Jesus, and I've never seen Him.

And there are shelves of my life, shelves holding cherished objects for display, out of reach; shelves holding items of insignificance; and a shelf holding a cup and a plate, something indescribably precious, yet crying out to be used.  "For you.  Eat.  Drink.  Remember," it says, "until I come again."

And something in me believes He will.

 Diane Mann, 2016