In the Hands of the Potter, Part 2: Centered on the Wheel

“We are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand.” —Isaiah 64:8 Centered on the Wheel

Centered on the Wheel

Before a potter can shape anything, the clay must be centered. It may sound simple, but it’s one of the most essential—and delicate—parts of the process. If the clay isn’t perfectly centered, everything else will struggle. The pot will wobble. The sides will rise unevenly. The piece might crack or collapse altogether.

So the potter presses gently but firmly, adjusting the pressure with both hands. One hand pushes, the other supports. The clay fights it at first—but when it finally finds its center, it moves with the wheel in perfect rhythm.

That’s when the shaping can begin.

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When Centering Comes First

Sometimes, even when a potter thinks the clay is centered, they begin shaping—only to have the piece wobble or collapse. It looked ready. It seemed stable. But the clay was just slightly off. It wasn’t fully grounded, and the structure couldn’t hold.

Our Potter, of course, never makes that mistake. He doesn’t misjudge or miscalculate. But sometimes we place ourselves on the wheel and say, “I’m ready. Please build me. Shape me.”

And yet, we haven’t truly centered ourselves in Christ. Not fully.

We may be praying, reading scriptures, doing what we’ve always known to do—but if our hearts are still clinging to the world, still divided, still holding back what we don’t want to surrender—we’ll wobble under pressure. And when the pressure comes—whether through the ordinary weight of life, the adversary’s attacks, or our own fears and resistance—we can crumble, not because the Potter failed, but because we weren’t willing to be fully centered.

Sometimes, before any shaping can begin, we need to simply be still.

To sit on the wheel.

To let Him move us, gently, to where our true center lies.

Often, it’s the simple things—those “mundane” daily acts of devotion—that bring us back to center: reading His word, praying with intention, listening quietly, choosing trust.

And maybe the most important ingredient of all: a willing heart.

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Scripture That Centers Us

The scriptures often speak of foundation, steadiness, and spiritual focus—reminding us where our true center must be.

Helaman 5:12

“And now…, remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation… which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall.”

When Christ is our center, we don’t just withstand the storms—we are shaped through them.

Mosiah 3:19

“For the natural man is an enemy to God… unless he yields to the enticings of the Holy Spirit.”

Centering takes yielding. Letting go. A quiet surrender to the Spirit rather than the pull of the world.

Matthew 11:28–29

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest… and ye shall find rest unto your souls.”

True centering doesn’t feel like striving. It feels like rest in Him—because it’s not about controlling the spin, but trusting the hands that hold us.

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A Moment I’ll Never Forget

This is where I get really vulnerable.

After my first husband left me, I was depleted. If you know me, you know I’m a confident person. But by the time he left, I had been dwindled down by emotional abuse—and on the day he walked out, physical.

I still can’t believe I begged him to stay.

I told him I would do anything. I would go to all the therapy. I believed him when he said it was all my fault. I believed everything he told me—every quiet, manipulative whisper that chipped away at me.

Like the way he’d hold me on his lap while we were cuddling, watching TV, and say,“Have you been stopping for more sweets? They’re so, so yummy, huh?”

Said with a smile. Said like a joke.

Or the way he’d smirk and say, “I bet your old boyfriends couldn’t hold you like this.”

He never directly said I was fat. But somehow, even at my thinnest as an adult, I felt like I was. That’s what those kinds of comments do.

And yet—I still begged him to stay. But he didn’t.

And now, I thank God for that.

The day he left, I was completely alone. My parents were out of town. My brother that lived there at the time not home either. I was sitting on their leather couch, a bottle of leftover pills in my hand—maybe mine, maybe my mom’s—I don’t even know.

I felt like damaged goods.

Utterly unfixable.

Unworthy of love.

My mind drifted back to my mission—memories I hadn’t let myself sit with for a long time. I remembered learning that some of my companions had written to the mission president with concerns about me. I was moody and snappy. He told me he didn’t know what to do with me, who to assign me with. I was shocked. I hadn’t done that in my writings to him.

I thought that was just part of the mission.

You’d get paired with someone who might say things that hurt you, or annoy you, or act unkind—and you just swallowed it. Someone you wouldn’t necessarily pick to live with for 6 weeks minimum, I thought that was just a normal thing to butt heads with someone you literally can’t be out of sight from and would tire of one another at minimum.

You smiled. You pushed through. You wrote letters that said everything was fine, because that’s what you were supposed to do, right? That what I did and thought was how I eventually would feel alright was if I pretended everything was fine.

I was fine. It was all fine. Until I wasn’t

I didn’t think you were supposed to complain. I didn’t think you were supposed to admit you were struggling.

I didn’t write about the hard stuff—

Not about my grandma dying in the MTC.

Not about my 3 older handicapped brothers that were all in and out of the ICU for months, not knowing if I’d be told in the next email they died.

Not about the carbon monoxide poisoning, the black mold, the pneumonia, the multiple times of bronchitis I had on the mission.

I just kept smiling.

But inside, I was breaking.

And then, unexpectedly, the only other grandparent I grew up knowing, my Papaw died.

And sick with pneumonia and completely numb and unable to function and go on anymore after this final blow, I was sent home from my mission honorably and saved future companions from living with my messy, broken self.

And on that couch, I broke again. It’s really me. I’m the problem, I thought. No one will ever want to live with me. No one will ever want to marry me.

And for a moment, I believed I needed to die.

But then—

I surrendered.

I didn’t take the pills.

My faith and my Savior held me.

I put them back in the bottle, and I stayed.

Years later, I sat on that very same couch—now mine, passed down from my parents—this time with my husband, and our children snuggled beside me.

And it hit me like a flood:

This is what surrender can lead to.

This is what happens when we let ourselves be centered on the wheel.

That moment of collapse—of almost giving up—was the moment I unknowingly let Him press me into center.

I stopped pretending I could hold myself together.

I let Him start to shape me.

And now, the life I have—my husband, our children, the quiet joy of family—was shaped right there, in the place I almost ended it all.

I am so glad I stayed.

I am so glad I surrendered to Him.

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Staying Centered

Before the shaping can begin, we have to be still. We have to let Him center us. And sometimes that takes more time than we expect.

Sometimes it means doing the quiet, faithful things—reading His word, praying with honesty, being willing to let go of what we’re clinging to.

Sometimes it means laying everything down—our pride, our fear, our timing—and just saying, “Here I am. I’m willing.”

Because being centered isn’t about perfection. It’s about surrender. It’s about trust.

If you’re feeling off-balance, or like you keep collapsing under pressure, maybe it’s not because you’re failing—maybe it’s just time to come back to center.

And if all you can offer today is stillness and a willing heart, that’s enough.

That’s where the shaping begins.

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About This Series: In the Hands of the Potter

This series was born from a painting I cut from an old Ensign magazine and taped to the back of my Preach My Gospel manual as a missionary. It features a woman shaping clay, paired with my favorite scripture:

“But now, O Lord, thou art our father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand.”

Isaiah 64:8

That image and verse have stayed with me ever since—through refining seasons, healing, and quiet moments of becoming.

Pottery speaks deeply to my spirit.

It reminds me that God is not distant; He is close—His hands gently shaping, sometimes pressing, always creating with love.

Each post in this series explores a stage of pottery and the spiritual truths it reveals: from surrendering as clay, to enduring the fire, to finding beauty in brokenness.

We are not forgotten in our shaping.

We are held.

And we are being formed into something beautiful.

Would love to hear your thoughts and/or answers to these questions below in the comments!

• What helps you feel spiritually centered?

• Are there “centering practices” in your life that bring you back to Christ?

• Have you ever felt like the clay—off-balance, unsure—but willing to stay on the wheel?

I’d love to hear how God has been shaping you, too. 🏺💛