Reflections @ XLII: In the Hands of the Skilled Potter

 

Photo: Daniel Dela Dunoo (Author, Ghostwriter, Editor, Publishing professional)

When you hit forty-two, you begin to see that life isn’t this tidy, uphill march or a clear-cut story where everything makes sense. It’s messier; woven together with wins, losses, times when everything feels full, and moments that seem empty. Looking back as I turned forty-two, I tried to distill some of these thoughts into a short poem, “Reflections @ xlii.” But really, what’s behind those lines is this: life isn’t so much about arriving somewhere; it’s about always changing, always becoming.

The poem kicks off with some honest contrasts:

“The joys, however fleeting; 

The anguish, however overwhelming; 

The respites, however transient; 

The toils, however unrelenting…”

That’s just how life feels, isn’t it? Joy comes and goes. Pain likes to hang around a little too long. Rest slips away fast, but work and responsibility can feel endless. By forty-two, you’ve lived enough to know nothing good or bad sticks around forever. Victories blur with time; disappointments lose their bite. But both of them leave marks that stay with you.

It’s tempting these days to make life look like one big highlight reel. We love to post our triumphs and tuck away the struggles. But growing older means getting real. You learn that a meaningful life doesn’t skip out on suffering; it grows because of it.

The next lines of the poem say:

“The highs, however grandiose; 

The lows, however infinite…”

If you’ve got a few years behind you, you know that feeling. The highs can sweep you away, make you believe they’ll last, but they don’t. The lows? Sometimes they feel endless, like you’ll never crawl out. Life doesn’t care; it keeps going. Neither the peaks nor the valleys make up the whole story. Both change you. Both teach you something.

By now, I’ve realized resilience isn’t flashy. It’s more a quiet push; a decision to get up after a setback. To carry questions you may never answer, but pick hope anyway. To keep moving when you’re not sure what’s next.

One line in the poem matters more than any other:

“I am but a work in progress; 

In the hands of the Master Craftsman…”

There’s real freedom in admitting you’re unfinished. People waste years chasing the feeling of “making it.” But the older you get, the more obvious it is that this work never ends. You’re an unfinished piece of art; shaped by everything you go through: the people, the heartbreaks, the small triumphs, faith, time.

And then there’s “the Master Craftsman.” That image of God suggests the rough patches, the delays, the times when things just fell apart—they aren’t just random. Maybe they’re all part of something bigger, a process that shapes who we’re meant to become.

Taking this in takes humility. Clay doesn’t tell the potter what to do. In a world obsessed with control, letting go goes against the grain. But there’s clarity in knowing you don’t have to steer every chapter.

Later, the poem refers to God as:

“The Extraordinary Strategist 

To HIM inestimable gratitude is owed.”

Gratitude grows with age; not because things get easier, but because you start to notice just how much grace you’ve needed to get here. You see it not just in the things you have, but in making it through. In the lessons heartbreak carved out, in the doors that slammed shut (and how things would have gone wrong if they'd stayed open), in the people you’ve held onto, in the strength that showed up just when you had nothing left.

True gratitude doesn’t show up just for the wins. It shows up even when you’re in the trenches. It sees a bigger story unfolding, even in the unanswered prayers and the pain that forced you to grow up.

The poem doesn’t just stare backward, though:

“Cogitations about the past and present, 

Gaze affixed on future splendors yet to unfold.”

Reflection matters, but it can’t freeze you in place. Looking back only helps if it sharpens your focus on what’s next. At this age, it’s easy to get lost in memories; what didn’t happen, what you used to have, and all the missed chances. But wisdom has a way of nudging you forward.

 There are still “future splendors yet to unfold.” There are new purposes ahead, deeper avenues for impact, joys and adventures you haven’t stumbled into yet. Growing older doesn’t just mean fading away; sometimes, it means opening up to a richer story; more understanding, more depth, more intention.

It all comes together in the poem’s last lines:

“xlii; we journey on; 

The Skilled Potter and the clay. 

Selah.”

The journey keeps moving. Never perfect, never easy, but full of intention.

Forty-two isn’t a finish line. It’s another marker on a road where we’re always being shaped. The Potter’s hands haven’t let go; the clay’s still soft enough to be worked. The story’s not done.

And for me, that’s the real comfort: that in all the fleeting joys, jaw-dropping setbacks, moments of peace, and days that wear us down; we’re never just left to wander. We’re still in the hands of someone who’s making something beautiful out of it all.

Selah.

By Daniel Dela Dunoo