RELEASE THE EAGLE

A Fable of Discovery

Paul Wendell Souder

My grandfather was the village potter. Three days before he died, he called all us grandchildren to his room. Around his bed the 12 of us gathered. His voice was still resonant, his gaze was still clear.

We shared stories, memories, tears. He shared his wisdom and left us with his blessing. And one final keepsake, which we cradled as we left his presence—a large clay jar with a small opening at the top, the work of his hands.

I put mine in a sunny corner, on a small table. It gave me comfort and helped me grieve his loss.

One final thing he said lingered like a riddle: “My dear ones, I will be leaving you soon. This jar of clay is my legacy to you. It is all I have, but it is more than enough. Guard it well, and when the time is right you will know what to do.”

Oh, to have another day in Grandfather’s shop. Harvesting the clay from the hillsides around the village. The musky smells of the earth as he prepared the clay on his giant outdoor table. Sitting on my stool by the wheel as he centered the moist ball of clay, smoothing its wobble, causing it to be still while around it spun the wheel. His thumbs began the opening and stretching. The clay obeyed his strong, wet hands. Another pot was born to hold the water and grain of the village.

The scene I will tell you now, I am imagining. It is my way of answering the riddle. This much I do know—every evening when Grandfather’s work was done, he lit his lamp, took down the scrolls from their shelf and studied the Scriptures. More than lamplight filled that room—his mind was filled with grand visions of the kingdom of God. That is the only way to explain the riddle.

I can only imagine his look of amazement that day as his shovel opened the red hillside and a crystal glint first caught his eye. The shovel fell to his side. He knelt to examine the treasure, a clear stone, large as a cat curled in his arms. What will I do with this stone of great value?

That night by lamplight he read, “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall mount up with wings as eagles.” And his mind soared. He remembered the stone hidden under his bed. Aha! Now I have a gift worthy of my vision.

I can see the jewel catching the lamplight, tossing rainbow fragments around his simple room. And in an act of faith, he took his tools, mere pottery knives and blades. Yet guided by his clear vision and his strong hands, they cut into the stone like wax.

The light of a new morning streamed through his window and fell on his creation. Every feather in its jeweled place, the eagle seemed to hover on the wind. Your rightful place is in the heavens, Grandfather must have thought as he wrapped the crystal eagle in a cloth and placed it gently under his bed. I am not a man of words. But with my hands, I have tried to capture one small glimpse of the kingdom of God.

That day, renewed by his work of the night, he had the energy of a young man as he shaped strong pots of clay. And that afternoon another jewel, as large as the first, fell from the hillside.

This went on for some time. He worked as a potter by day with his hands in the clay. Then every night by the light of his lamp he fashioned visions of beauty from the clear stones he unearthed. He poured his life into those stones. They were his joy, his bliss.

He had to know that his years with us were coming to an end. I can imagine him at the wheel for the last time, creating his final jars of simple beauty. His skilled hands drew the walls of the jar up from that moist ball of clay. Half finished, he stopped the wheel. He unwrapped his crystal handiwork and set each one in the middle of its jar. You will be safe here, he breathed a prayer as he finished the jar, drawing in the sides until only a small opening remained at the top.

And there it sat, safe in my jar in that sunny corner all these years.

Until that morning when in my haste of cleaning, I tipped the jar. And it spun. Like a wobbly top it spun on the table, but it did not fall. With every spin, a glint of light caught my eye.

I reached for the jar, held it close, and peered inside. The feathers of an outstretched wing, a jeweled eye, unblinking, caught the sunlight for the first time in years.

Then Grandfathers’s riddle returned to me: “This jar of clay is my legacy to you. It is all I have, but it is more than enough. Guard it well, and when the time is right you will know what to do.”

With a brick, I tap, tap, tapped until the jar crumbled away.

Above the chards of broken clay, the eagle hovered on silent wings, a message of love from the throne of God. It reached across the chasm, touched a hidden place inside of me. And changed my life forever.

—Paul Wendell Souder, Harrisonburg, Virginia, is a communications consultant specializing in marketing and publications; he preached an earlier version of this fable at Lindale Mennonite Church. He and wife Donna are parents of four children.