The Carpenter

I met a Carpenter one time, and He restored me from a pile of ashes, to a vessel of beauty. 

I was once a dilapidated being, buried beneath the rubble of a locust-eaten soul. My bones were worn, my insides torn, a shell of what I was created to be. 

My smile had faded, my eyes were dim, the darkness had eroded me, my walls were barren, grey and lifeless; joy and peace eluded me. 

I knew my frame was caving in, as demolition's fate was near. The bones of this old structure were giving way, nothing felt secure. 

But a Carpenter found me in that sinking sand, a Masterful Builder, able to make all things new; an authority in restoring shattered vessels, and repurposing jars of clay. 

He was kind and gentle, with the truest eyes I’d ever seen. He saw beyond the rusty stains, he looked past the dirt and filth. He saw right through, to my inner parts, something familiar about His gaze, His eyes cut through, like a welder’s fire, separating me, from muck and mire.

He told me I could trust Him, but the process would take time. I nodded in agreement, pushing back the tears, hoping He wouldn’t see the apprehension through all my doubts and fears. I simply couldn’t see, how I could ever be, anything under this wrecked and wasted rubble. 

But He believed I could, and I believed His confidence. He promised a future beyond all I could dare to dream, a disposition so sound, generations would hear of His restorative work, and put their trust in His great name. 

This Carpenter went to work, excavating moth-balls and decay, leaving me fearfully empty, in order to re-build something wonderful and everlasting. 

The Carpenter used tools I was unfamiliar with, He promised me the pain would be worth it. He chiseled away at my hardened heart, He hammered in truth, deep inside the recesses of the frame He was shaping, giving me glimpses, to the structure He was creating. I winced at times, as parts of me were being stripped away, creating in their place, a sacred space, for the Carpenter’s Spirit to remain. 

He sanded down my rough exterior, revealing all the covered dings. All the holes I tried to putty myself, with any and everything. He nodded gently as He tore down walls, assuring me these barriers were no longer necessary. 

Every day He worked on me, restoring, repurposing, cleaning out dark closets, clearing out corners, stuffed with hidden debris. He pulled out waste, junk, and hand-me-down garbage, scaling it down, exposing me bare. 

He took the broken pieces and repurposed them with something He called grace. The process felt unbearable at times, the sanding, the sawing, the nails that made me wince. I couldn’t help but notice, in His palms were nail pierced holes, it caught my breath and stilled my soul. 

 “What happened to your hands?” I asked.

He paused for a long time and took my hands in His. “Daughter,” He said, with the kindest voice I’d ever heard. “These holes are for you.” 

I looked at Him with tears of mercy streaming down my face. I knew at that moment; He knew how painful this restoring process was. But I also knew He loved me too much to leave me the way He found me. He knew firsthand how nails felt. He knew the sting of a rugged cross, and how wooden splinters tear away the flesh. He knew what weeping was, and why tears could feel like drops of blood dripping to the dust. 

I met a Carpenter one day, His holes restored my dying soul, and miraculously made me whole.