Author: Mark Myers

I am a husband of one, father of four daughters, a dreamer, a builder, a believer, and most enjoyably a writer. In 2015, I became a reluctant Childhood Cancer Advocate as we lost our youngest daughter Kylie to the disease. Kylie taught me to steal joy from even the worst of circumstances and I will always be on the lookout for happiness among the thorns of life. Join me for a generous helping of laughter and tears.

The Master Craftsman

.Reading time 6 minutes.

“Please hand me the small chisel,” the craftsman said to his apprentice.

The young lad quickly left his position next to the bench and fetched the smallest chisel in the set and laid it carefully within reach. Noting its worn handle and aged iron, he ventured a question, “Why do you not get new chisels? Yours are very old.”

“What, in particular makes you think I need new chisels?” asked the craftsman as he picked it up gingerly.

“Their handles are splintered and ugly. The metal has chinks in it.”

“Regardless of their appearance, they are sharp. All I need from my chisel is that it be sharp when I must gouge wood.”

“At very least the handles could be replaced, sir. Then they would be more comfortable to hold.”

The craftsman pondered the tool in his weathered palm. “Though they look rough to you, time and use have formed these chisels to fit perfectly in my hand. These are my chisels; they are like no others in existence. Many years have taught them what they are and what they are not. They are not made to be comfortable, they are made for work. Where you see splinters, I see the cherry shavings from cradle made for my son’s first night’s sleep. Where you see ugly iron, I see only the toy my granddaughter held when her hand was the size of an egg. These chisels were given to me by my father. I have sharpened them hundreds of times and their next owner can sharpen them a hundred times more. No, I do not need new chisels. These will do nicely.”

“Yes, sir.”

The apprentice bowed and set off to his duty of cleaning. In a deep corner of the carpentry shop, he noticed a stack of unhewn, dark wood set apart from the other lumber.

“Master?” he called. “What shall I do with this wood?”

Looking up from his work, the craftsman set down his chisel and ambled over to the lad, wiping his calloused hands on his apron as approached.

When he arrived, he looked at the wood and asked, “What would you do with it?”

“I do not know. I suppose it should be stacked with the others.”

“Do you know what species this is?”

“No, sir, I do not,” answered the boy honestly.

The master smiled gently. “Well, do you like it? Do you think it can become something worthy?”

The boy inspected the wood and felt the roughness of it. The boards were thick and marred by many splashes of color variation surrounding what appeared to be a knot hole that ran throughout. Although he had seen his master make beautiful things from the rawest of material, he had to admit that this wood seemed too blemished for proper use.

“I do not,” he replied.

“And why not?” Questioned the master.

Considering his answer carefully, the lad said, “The knot makes the wood worthless. It would not be suitable for a piece of furniture with your name.”

“Ah, I see,” said the master. He ran his hand slowly over the rough wood, wiping away the dust left from years of storage. “This, lad, is walnut. I collected this long ago and have been saving it for something very special. I do not yet know what piece it will be, but when that commission comes, I will recognize it and this walnut will be perfect. Like you, when most people see the indifferent color of it, they see flaws. They see the knot and its wormholes and believe it unredeemable. I choose to see it differently. I believe this wood has a soul – a uniqueness that will make it beautiful beyond what you and I currently see in it. We will find its purpose, and in doing so, we will make it beautiful.”

“But how will the holes be hidden?”

The master craftsman smiled knowingly.

“I do not intend to hide them, to do so would be to take away that which sets it apart. I will draw attention to these flaws so they can sing – telling a story that no other can tell.”

Though his understanding was incomplete, the lad desired to continue his duties.

“Yes, master. What then would you like me to do with it?”

“Let us leave it here and hope its use is made clear very soon,” said the craftsman. “That is enough for today. My back is stiff and the sun is low. I will see you on the morrow when the sun shows its face again. Rest well, my friend.”

“Yes, sir,” said the lad as he retired his broom and hurried into the fresh air.

 

Click HERE to go on to part 2.

This story has been welling in me for a year as I have been learning from the master craftsman. Four chapters exist today to be published as a weekly serial… the final chapter has yet to be written. 

 

A Bird in the Storm

.Reading time 5 minutes.

The sky darkened suddenly around the little bird. He felt a storm was coming close. Bursts of rain were common in the forest and no cause for alarm.

“A bird must keep going,” he had often told his chicks when they were afraid. “The forest is the forest in the sun, and it is still the forest in the rain. We mustn’t let a little rain keep us from our work or tiny birds don’t get their worms.”

But a storm – that was a different thing. A storm was to be respected and guarded against. His ladybird watched for signs and tried to prepare. He never did and, in fact, he often chided her for her caution. In his opinion, storms were inevitable and no amount of preparation can help when the forest is angry.

Far from the safety of his nest and anxious about the gathering wind, the bird left off his search for worms and pointed toward home. But the rain was tremendous; it struck his outstretched wings and pushed him earthward as he attempted to fly.

A lunge. A leap. Little bursts of energy rising against the fury of the storm. Blinding light accompanied by a deafening crack of thunder gave pause to the little bird’s effort. Still, he knew he wasn’t safe until he reached his nest and further, his chicks would be frightened in such a storm. So, he pushed on.

The storm is relentless… loud… unyielding. It fights him at every turn. His confidence wanes even as he makes slow progress. It builds around him as if he is the target of wrath. Every peal of thunder seems greater than the last and every streak of lighting gets closer. The wind throws the little bird off course again and again and he curses its strength. But he keeps going.

Finally, after great effort, he sees little nest, high in the home tree. The storm is dwindling, the forest’s anger passing. He stretches his exhausted wings for a final climb and soars inside. Something is wrong. He knows it instantly from the sad look on the face of ladybird. He counts little feathered heads, little closed beaks. One, two, three… One is missing – taken by the storm.

“What happened?”

There is no answer because there is no answer. The storms of life take what they take. Only the forest knows. He has been taught this and knows it to be true. But still he wonders. Thoughts like great tempests assault his grieving mind.

If I had only been here!

Why not me instead?

What if I had built the nest stronger or in a different place?

Why didn’t I listen to the warnings about the storm?

What do we do now?

What do we do now? He is only a little bird – what could he possibly do?

He listens as his neighbors called mournfully. Songs of sorrow fill the trees and he loves them for it.

When morning comes, the little bird surveys three little feathered heads, three little empty beaks and knows they need to be filled. Leaving again is the hardest thing, but the only way to sate their mounting hunger. Back to work, back to the worms.

But nothing would never be the same. While he watches with joy as his three little chicks grow into fledglings, there is always something missing. Her absence makes the nest a hard place to be, but somehow, it is the only place that gives comfort.

Every day the forest shares something that reminds him of his little chick. In the early days, the reminders stung as hard as the rain of the storm he cannot forget. But in time, the little pieces of her give him joy and hope. And he is thankful to the forest for what it gives even while he is sad for what it took – a contradiction he would ever recognize, but too lofty a thought to understand.

After all, he is only a little bird.