The Carpenter

March 19th was the feast day of St. Joseph.  I just found that out today (2 days later), but it kind of makes sense to what thought has been going through my head to share with you.

So I was picturing a scene from the show "Ax Men" which depicts loggers out clearing massive trees from treacherous terrain with big machines. One could surmise that the first step in this process is to grow a tree.  Let's assume that tree is you and you have grown tall and strong and straight and desirable for building stuff.

You stand in the woods with all of your other tree-friends, until something cuts you through. You find yourself laid low, felled by a power source foreign to you, and that you can't quite fathom. You are bound in chains and dragged away.  You are aware of your branches being ripped off as you are hauled to a site with no trees left standing.  Much of the protective bark that has kept you safe your whole life is ripped off as you are unceremoniously lifted horizontally by what appears to be a giant mouth, and spit upon a giant truck bed.

At this point you may ponder where you are, but you won't be able to take it all in, as you are now speeding down a smooth stone path (known as a "highway") surrounded by vehicles large and small.  This is SO far from the home where you've spent your whole life! No more birds, no branches for them!  No family of squirrels nesting in your leaves.  Just you to the core.  Only a trunk.  No roots. No branches.

You are lifted once again, but this time off the truck and into a pile of other trunks. Silent and alone, you lay in a pile waiting to find out what comes next. You may be thinking back to the gentle rains of your youth as a sapling in that woods.  You remember how your bark used to be so thin that you were scarred by every stick that touched you.  As you grew older it got thicker, and curled with deep grooves that kept you safe from everything around you.  You remember how soft and flexible you were inside.  The strength you now posses is surprising, even to you.  And that is how you have come to this place.

The Carpenter needs you.

He lifts you into his mill, carefully so as not to damage you.  He places you on a long table with a sharp blade at one end.  He measures carefully, and begins to cut away a layer of bark and wood. All of your years of standing strong have formed a beauty inside you that you never knew was there until now.  Rings have formed. One for each hard winter, withstanding the cold and snow.  One for each lovely summer blowing gently in the warm sun and breezes. Those rings are the reminders of what has made you strong AND beautiful.  He measures again, and begins another cut.


He will use all of you.

Those first strips he cuts will provide warmth for His family and glow with the light of the fire he lights in you. He continues to slice you.  Using each slice to make strong, solid, useful things for His family.  One slice for making a crib to hold His infant son, some more slices to make a table where the family will eat.  Perhaps one day that infant son will eat there with his friends. Board by board, slice by slice, your strength and beauty is needed by the Master Craftsman for some noble purpose. All who look upon the things he has made with you will see your rings and remember your struggle and your success.  All you have weathered up until now has been leading to this moment when the Carpenter can show your strength and beauty. Big pieces and small, he will use all of you until you have nothing left to give.  

As the last bits of your bark are thrown into the fireplace to kindle a new fire, some may believe you are gone.

You are not gone. You have been beaten and stripped.  You have had the branches ripped away.  You have been sliced and broken and shared.  You have been used to uphold and support the Carpenter's family.  You have been both strong and beautiful.  You are an intimate part of the story, and you remain.  

Look around you and see all the wood.  The wood of the tables and cribs and crosses was once a tree. The tree is gone, the wood remains.