In high school, I got a little bit of experience with actual clay, the kind you shape and model and fire in a kiln. The kind that, as my art-teacher BIL pointed out the other week, is muddy and dark when you’re working with it, but which emerges from the flames a pure white. All sorts of spiritual significance in that, huh?

But these days, I’m in Play-Doh World. It happens when babies grow into toddlers and need to be entertained at a seat for ten minutes now and then. =) Now, I’m a big Play-Doh fan. Bright colors, non-toxic, not too messy . . . until it starts to dry out. Inescapable, right? Eventually, the modeling compound get dry and crumbly and cracked.

Gee, no spiritual significance in that. Ha. Ha ha. Seriously, I can’t count the number of days I’ve felt like that–like I started out this wonderful, bright, innocent thing, able to be shaped into whatever the Potter wanted. But then life sneaks in, disappointments and rejection keep coming, and there are days when I just feel dried out, crumbly. It doesn’t usually last long (for me–I’ve yet to successfully re-hydrate the Play-Doh), but still.

Then last year, I discovered a kind of RoseArt clay. Bright, colorful, non-toxic, and smells good to boot. And on the bucket, it says “Never dries out!” Yeah, right. Right? I didn’t believe it, and I didn’t figure I should try to test it out. Until one day, my daughter hid some when I wasn’t looking. I found it a week later, sighed, picked it up prepared to throw it away . . . and was amazed. This clay was still malleable. Still soft. Still bright, colorful, non-toxic, and fragrant. Unbelievable!

So as my kids sit here playing with this clay, which has been sitting out for who-knows-how-long (my daughter is an expert hider–I had no clue she had put some in her music box! Oy!) I realize I want to be like this clay. I don’t want to have the excuse of “dried-out days are inescapable.” I don’t want to think that of course things will crumble eventually. Why should they? Why should I? I serve an expert Potter, one who uses a secret formula of life to create the clay from which I’m made. Why should I assume He made me of stuff that can’t survive long in the fresh air?

Play-Doh is still awesome, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t want to be Play-Doh. I want to be made of a clay that can always be reshaped into the image the Potter has in mind, no matter how long I’ve been out in these winds and heat of life. I want to be molded by Him daily. I don’t want to sing about the Potter and the Modeling Compound. I want to be the clay.

But yesterday I wondered a little about the process. See, my kids are a lot like I was when I was small. Competitive, loud, and they throw temper tantrums whenever they don’t get their way. Every time my mom sees it, she laughs and says, “Gee, I wonder where they get that from.” To which I reply, “I have absolutely no idea. I certainly never acted that way.”

Now, it’s a bit of a joke because I’m so even-tempered now that one of my college professors actually said, “I’m concerned that such temperance is unhealthy in one so young.” Last night my husband asked, “So . . . what happened to that temper?”

My answer? When I was about ten, I started getting on my own nerves. It took a lot of energy to get upset over nothing, and it didn’t seem to accomplish much. So I made a concerted effort to grow up–in that respect, anyway.

Not so oddly, it’s been through having kids that are so stinkin’ much like I used to be that has sparked my temper again. I growl daily, and often think that this 2-4 age may just kick my butt–but then they cuddle up against me . . . I’m still amazed at deeply the mother-instinct runs. I mean, I remember being like my daughter, and screaming every single time I stubbed my toe. (Every. Single. Time.) But now when I thwack my elbow off the corner of a cabinet (like I did last night. Ow.), my first thought is, “Don’t scream. Don’t wake the kids. Suck it up.”

I still have those moments when I feel like a kid myself, I’m still amazed when I feel like an adult in a certain respect for the first time. And I’m finally realizing that this “growing up” thing probably never ends. There are always going to be new steps in the process . . . and as long as I realize that, I keep myself malleable for the Lord to keep on a-workin’ on me.

For some reason, one of them was discussion questions. I moaned at the very thought of someday maybe needing to write them. Then at the conference in September, someone said something about feeling similarly . . . until they got a piece of reader mail saying that one of those questions changed the reader’s life. Now I’m saying, “Well, huh.”

Given that I’ve already had people express interest in using A Stray Drop of Blood for bookclubs, It occurred to me that discussion questions might be a good thing. I said as much to my husband, who replied, “Better still, put together a bunch of the stuff that you drew on to write it. You know, behind the scenes stuff or information they can read to understand the culture of the day better. Encyclopedia Roseann-ica.”

This sounded cool, so I started taking notes on ideas. And thanks to my obsessive nature, it’s approaching completion on my website. I’ve now got both the Companion Guide and the Discussion Questions online (yes, the questions are also in the back of the book). If you’re curious but haven’t read Stray Drop, you’ll want to avoid the discussion questions (which might tip you off on some plot points) but you still might find the Companion Guide interesting. I’ll hopefully be finishing off my sections today. There’ll still be a few topics without links, though, which will be written by guest-experts. Just go to www.RoseannaMWhite.com, click on the Books tab, and voila. Companion Guide and Discussion Question links are front and center.

And since this is on my mind because I need to go do it, I guess I better, you know . . . go do it. =)

When I was a little girl, my love for this season was pure and untainted. As was my love for winter with its surprise snow days, summer with its lazy hours by the pool and world of adventure in my imagination, and my absolute favorite spring, with all that new life poking through and washing the world in bright new green. Then I grew up. Things–and opinions–began to change.

My mother-in-law is an outdoors person, one with Mediterranean blood. She hates winter. I’m talking with-a-passion. My husband does too, though not as bad as his mom. So for them, fall is just a precursor. In every brisk breeze, they see the endless winter looming. In every falling leaf, they see the end of their favorite summer. I once observed how I loved the smell of a forest in the fall, and my scientifically minded honey replied, “You know that’s just rot, right?”

Thanks, dear. Really.

I confess I’m not such a big fan of winter now that there’s no such thing as a day off because of snow. So I now tend to say things like, “I really love fall . . . if only it didn’t end in winter.”

But part of me wishes I could forget the negativity. I could . . . but someone would point it out. And that’s fine, because that’s their opinion. Inside me, though, is that little girl who loves every season the Lord paints on my world. I love watching time roll over the mountains. I love the colors on the trees, even if it does mean they’re dying. I love the smell of that autumnal forest, even if it is rot. I love that cool air, even if it does mean nasty winter gusts are on their way.

It’s just another example of who I am, I guess. I’ll acknowledge your downsides. No point in denying them when they’re true. Just don’t expect me to dwell on it. So long as autumn is blazing across the trees, I’m going to enjoying every breeze.

In some ways, the focus of a toddler really amazes me. What is so intriguing about the sound of spoons clanking together? What is the allure of taking every can out of my cupboard? How can he get so many wipes out of the pack in the three seconds I turn my back?

On the whole, I’m really impressed with these little people I have. My daughter has an inspiring imagination and takes really good care of her brother (when she isn’t bopping him on the head), and the little guy’s getting to that age where he progresses in leaps and bounds. For instance, he hadn’t put two words together (not counting phrases that he probably mistakes for a one word, like “good job” and “thank you”) until yesterday. Then he followed up “Hi, Papa” with “brush teeth” and “no cookie.” (Although that last one . . . hm. Maybe this boy needs help. Turning down a cookie??)

I really like how they show us things about ourselves. I may growl at the dual-focus thing since he never seems to focus on what needs to be done, but am I any different? I could spend hours in front of my computer writing or editing or checking email, but my attention span is amazingly short when it comes time to clean, cook, or listen to my husband talk about cars. Or insurance. Or the economy. LOL.

Pretty smart of God to provide us with cute little mirrors, isn’t it?