But these handprints on the front steps are mine.

Once upon a time, there lived a happy little lump of clay.

{hear me out here...}

The little lump of clay lived in the corner of a sculptor's workshop. There he stayed nice and warm, and there were many other little lumps of clay to keep him company.

However, one day, the sculptor picked up the lump of clay and flopped him onto a cold table. The sculptor began poking and pushing and squeezing and pinching at the lump of clay. "Master, stop that! It hurts!" the little lump of clay cried. But the sculptor smiled at him and whispered, "Not yet."

Then the sculptor carried him to a small round tray. The tray started spinning, faster and faster. The little lump of clay was afraid and confused. "Why are you doing that?" he yelled at the sculptor, "I don't like this! Master, please stop!" The sculptor chuckled and gently said,"Not yet."

Soon, the tray stopped spinning, and the sculptor set the lump of clay in a hot oven. He's going to burn me to death, the lump of clay thought. "This is madness! Why would you do this to me? I have never done anything to deserve this! Master, it's unbearable in here! Get me out, now!" Again, the sculptor whispered, "Not yet."

After what seemed like forever, the sculptor gently took the lump of clay out of the oven and set him back on the table. Before the little lump of clay knew it, he was being slathered in different paints, some white, some pink, some gold, and all very smelly. The fumes made him sputter and gag. And the brushes tickled incessantly."Master, that is awful stuff! Please, stop it." As the sculptor smoothed the paint on with a small brush, he smiled again and said, "Not yet."

The lump of clay was completely covered in wet, sticky paint, and just when he thought he could bear no more, the sculptor again set him in the scalding hot oven. "Master! Master! Not again! Please, Master! I can't take it! Let me out!" The sculptor turned to the lump of clay, tears now streaming down his face. "Not yet."

After many agonizing hours, the sculptor reached in and picked up the tired, worn out lump of clay. The lump of clay breathed a breath of fresh, cool air. "Master? What is happening now?" he whispered. The sculptor set him high on a clean, white shelf. "There," he said, "I have created just what I intended. Just look at yourself!" The sculptor held up a hand mirror for the lump of clay to look at his reflection. But what he saw in the mirror was no lump of clay. "That, that can't be me!" There stood a gleaming, shining, beautiful teacup. "But, Master, I'm just a lump of clay!"

"But that is you, little teacup. That is what I have made of you. If I had not worked you, you would have become dry like a rock. If I had not spun you on the wheel, you would have crumbled. If I had not subjected you to heat, you would have cracked. If I had not painted you, you would have been gray an bland. The second trip to the oven gave you strength to endure. Now, you are everything I ever dreamed you would be."

The teacup sat in silence, and a tear fell down his cheek. "Master, forgive me. All this time, I did not trust you. I thought you were hurting me. I had no idea that this is what I could become. I was blinded. Thank you, Master. Thank you."

{This House that Built Me by Miranda Lambert}