A Potter's Christmas Story
As the last of the afternoon sun shone through the window, the Little Tree Studio finally fell quiet. Clay and glaze had been wiped away, tools returned to their homes and the kiln sat cool once again.
The potter washed his hands, aware of his muscles aching with the kind of tired that makes him feel content with the day’s journey. He had spent months making little ceramic houses filled with love, tealights that glowed warm with delight, tableware that sang for food and mugs that invited grateful hands. Packing up last‑minute orders and staying late so humans he had never met would have something handmade to unwrap on Christmas Day.
As he closed the studio door, he suddenly remembered that he had been so busy that he had forgotten a gift for the man that he loved. No secret mug hidden on the shelf, no special gift hiding under their bed. A little sadness washed over him as he stood in warm summer twilight.
Stepping through to his house, he was greeted by the smell of roasted veggies and Christmas spices. His boyfriend had cooked the most delicious delights, lit candles and set their table with the “seconds” the potter never thought were good enough to sell.
“These are my favourites, they’re imperfectly us,” his boyfriend said.
They shared dinner from the wonky bowls and plates with glaze that didn't quite work out.
Later, on the couch, as the fairy lights sparkled from the tree, the potter murmured, “I’m sorry I forgot a present for you.”
His boyfriend leaned closer, his head resting on the potter’s shoulder as if it had always belonged there. “You gave everything these past months,” he said. “Your time, your hands, your care. Every piece you make carries that and I'm sure people will feel it. That’s not a small thing, that’s love, shaped and shared.”
He paused, pressing a gentle kiss into the potter’s hair.
“We don’t need more things when our lives are already filled with so much love.”
The potter’s heart filled with warmth as gratitude settled gently into his soul.
He let his gaze drift around their cosy living room, noticing the flicker of candlelight across his boyfriend’s contented face and clay still under his own fingernails. There was so much to be grateful for: a safe place to lie his head, the chance to create more than just things, and the love that was there for him every day.
“This is our gift,” he said softly. “This moment. This life.”
Outside, somewhere, his work sat under trees and on tables, part of many Christmas stories he would never know. Inside, in the quiet glow of their home, the potter knew that the real gifts were never the objects he made, but the love and connection they carried.
May gratitude for all the things you have fill your heart with joy this Christmas, it's a gift that truly lasts.
A Potter's Christmas Story by Alexander Thatcher at Little Tree Studio.
