On a holiday outing that included my boss and co-workers, we visited a shop stuffed with unique handcrafted items. While wandering through, I pointed out a long, narrow table. 鈥淚 need something like this in our hallway at home.鈥�
鈥淚 could build one for you,鈥� said my boss, standing nearby. 鈥淛ust send a picture of what you鈥檇 like.鈥� He added that when he retired 鈥� soon - he intended to build us all something, as a thank you for our service. Though not a woodworker by trade, I knew him to have exceptional woodworking skills. That he wanted to do this humbled me. I felt I owed him a gift, for hiring me in the first place.
I never sent a picture, knowing how many post-retirement projects already awaited him, some on hold for years. But after his retirement, after the parties and farewells, the cataloging of memories and hollowing out of office, his wife called. 鈥淐an you send a picture?鈥� she asked. 鈥淗e wants to make your table in the next few weeks.鈥�
I Googled 鈥渟kinny hall table 鈥� images,鈥� found one I liked in a simple Arts and Crafts style, and passed it on.
When my boss delivered his gift, I almost cried at its beauty. Like my grandson with a new Lego project, he explained every detail. How he鈥檇 used two types of wood; sugar maple and cherry, felled in an Ontario bush and dragged out by horses. He鈥檇 planed the boards himself, he said....
Whenever I pass that table in my hall, I still marvel. I notice how the drawer fronts came from a single board. How, wherever possible, my boss used pegs, rather than nails. How he added a small ledge on the back of the shelves, to keep items from falling off. I notice the subtle rise and fall of the hand-planed planks and how their hand-rubbed finish feels like silk under my hand. I notice that the tree鈥檚 imperfections remain, honest and humble, like the table鈥檚 builder. I think of its origins in an Ontario wood where sugar comes from hardness, but only after a good long boil. And I smile to remember the heat my boss faced in his long public career. How it made him stronger. Sweeter, perhaps.
A gift of heart from gifted hands 鈥� a gift to cherish. 鈥淭his will likely go with me to a nursing home one day,鈥� I told my boss. He grinned.
Long ago another carpenter gave a gift. But the hands of Jesus of Nazareth, Son of God, didn鈥檛 wield a hammer over wood. For love, for a world of lost sinners, they stretched wide and allowed nails to pin them to wood 鈥� a cruel cross. His gift cost him his life.
For anyone who believes in Jesus Christ, that indescribable gift still makes a difference. I do. And that gift, I鈥檒l take with me into eternity, where risen, he reigns.
