My nephew was cleaning out a closet at the Ranch House and he found a coffee mug I made for my mother in third grade.  When I say “coffee mug,” what I am trying to describe is my intention, not the actual resemblance of the object to anything that actually holds coffee.

It began as a third-grade art project.  We were to make our mothers a gift for Mother’s Day.  I knew my mother drank a cup of coffee in the morning, so I thought she might like to have a custom-made cup.  I took the wet clay and tried to shape it to look like a store-bought mug.  It wound up looking more like a miniature volcano: wide at the base and narrow at the top.  I crafted a handle and attached it.  It fell off.  The teacher had to help me roll out another piece of clay and graft it into the cup. 

The bell rang, and our art teacher told us she would take this to be fired.  This process had not been adequately explained to me because I wondered what my cup had done to deserve termination.  It turned out the clay had to be put through the fire to harden, after which we would paint our creations.

The next week our clay creations were returned to us, ready for painting.  We had to share paint and brushes, which is difficult for third graders.  Other kids had painted their creations bright blue and fiery red.  When it came my turn to get the brush, the only color left was brown.  With no other choice, I slapped the brown paint onto the clay.  You can never describe the color brown as “colorful” or “brilliant.”

The next week, the teacher gave us back our creations.  She handed the cup back to me and I barely recognized it.  It was still the same volcanic shape, but someone had painted a sickly yellow color over the brown coat.  The end result looked like a bathroom disaster.  The teacher said, “See me after class.”

Had I done something wrong?  Had I used the wrong color paint and the heat of the second baking changed the colors?  Had my cup damaged the oven?  A third-grader’s imagination can go to dark places. 

After the bell rang, the teacher pulled aside and said, “I am sorry Clay.  When your cup came out of the furnace the brown paint had partially melted.  I tried to cover it up with this yellow paint, but it did not cover the surface well.  I know you wanted to give your Mom something pretty, but I hope she will like this anyway.”  This was not exactly an endorsement of my artistic skills. 

By this time, it was too late to think about any other project to give my mother for Mother’s Day.  It was the ugly cup or nothing.  I wrapped it in newspaper (because Mama knew better than to give us good wrapping paper), using almost a whole roll of tape. 

My brothers and sisters had done far better than me on their gifts – after all, they had jobs and money.  Mine was the last gift to be opened.  I remember the shock on Mama’s face when she saw the cup; ugliness can leave you speechless.  Then she looked at me and exclaimed, “I love it!  How beautiful!  Thank you, Clay.”  I beamed with eight-year-old pride as Mama showed off the cup to the older kids with a look in her eye that said, “Don’t you dare laugh, or you will incur my wrath.”  It must have worked because no one laughed, and I received several other compliments from my siblings. 

I never saw Mama drink coffee from that mug.  I can’t blame her.  In that cup the coffee would be hard to identify.  Instead, she put it on her nightstand, where collected change, straight pins, and other paraphernalia that accumulates over time.  By the time I went off to college, it had graduated to her dresser.  As an adult, I found it one day in her closet on a shelf, still holding little odds and ends. 

When the mug came back into my hands fifty years later, I wondered why Mama had not thrown it away.  It was not beautiful.  Its function of holding odds and ends could have been fulfilled by something more attractive.  But Mama held onto it all those years.  I guess what mattered to her was not the gift itself, but who gave her the gift. 

I did not have money to buy Mama a Mother’s Day gift, but what I had, I gave.  Paul wrote to the ancient church in Corinth these words: “12 For if the willingness is there, the gift is acceptable according to what one has, not according to what one does not have.”  What matters is your heart, your willingness. 

Stop and think about everything your Mama did for you.  I’m sure she wasn’t perfect.  But honor her.  Give her gifts of forgiveness, love, and grace.  If you get a chance, get her a coffee cup.  She might even drink coffee from it.