The Anvil

The Anvil

            I sat there, alone, in the stillness of the quiet, dark shop.  Absent were all the sounds, smells, and commotion that filled the place every day.  Rather than enjoy the rest, I was fussing, fuming and fighting with myself.  Why?  Why was this my lot?  My place?  Surely, I was meant for something else?

            Gone were the customers; but, I could still hear them bragging, posturing, comparing, competing.  “… check out this biodag Smithie made for me!  Now, that’s a dirk...”  “... agh!  Just take a look at this claidheamohmor Smithie sold me!  Now, that is quality ...”  “... would you just get out of the way;  I need this plow repaired ...”   On and on and on it goes!  The hammering.  The noise.  The heat and smoke ...

            But, I am just an anvil.  My top is smooth from all the banging.  The hammers get all the action.  I just sit here, atop this block, and absorb the impacts.  The tools are repaired.  The knives are carefully fashioned into desired weapons.  But, I am “just an anvil”?!

            Daylight is peeking in through the shop door.  And, there is Smithie, already stoking the coal fire for the day’s work.  Here he comes in my direction.  “... good morning, my old friend!  Another day of beating and banging.  But, I can always count on you.  Hammers come and go.  Many a plow and scythe have been repaired on your faithful frame.  Without you, many farms would be in trouble.  And, the knives keep the lasses busy with supper.  Sorry to abuse you; but, I need you to mold and form all these others.  If there is a flaw in your metal, surely it has been beaten out, long since annealed, work-hardened!”

            I am so  sorry and ungrateful, blind to my special place.  I get to be with Smithie every day.  Only on Sundays is he absent.  I guess he himself needs to be at the “Great Forge” occasionally?  But, together, we are making this place so much better.  I’d rather be an anvil, than a hammer, and moreso, rather than a broken plow.  Bring the noise, the heat, the hammering ... let’s fix some plows and cutlery!

ILL-FATED SEED

ILL-FATED SEED?!

To the bent, cursed tree it flies,

a raven, from the very pits of Hell.

Into his foul beak the seed he plies,

Later to the chosen ground it fell.

With it now, he rises into the night,

for the rank, hog-pen runoff a-spying.

The God-forsaken kernel fell from sight;

Into stench below; it was surely dying?

 

 

Into a tree, it slowly, but steadily grows.

But, with limbs all twisted and knotted,

good for nothing; for what who knows?

Its purpose? Its use? Felled and rotted?

Gathered there to roost, only vultures.

Taken to their nests, all manner of refuse.

All around, they added filth to the manure.

Never would this tree be of any good use?

Because of all this, it was ever left alone.

Never even fuel, and certainly not lumber.

Would its fate, or end, never be known?

Sapping the ground, its strength encumber.

Along came men, demanding posts, a pole.

Brutes, ill-tempered, brusque and cruel,

The hog pen tree, they chopped and stole.

Maybe for their campfire, they needed fuel.

Other trees, harvested from time to time.

Lumber for shelter, for a table, some planks.

In them, village children often would climb;

But, at it, they turned, sneering, “no thanks.”

Where was it going? What purpose to fulfill?

With axes, was chopped and then, roughly hewn.

Carried through the streets, then up a steep hill,

Nails driven in, a prisoner attached, now it is noon.

Who is this one? by all around, he is mocked!

And, all his friends turn away, even the Sun.

Darkness surrounded! what hour has clocked?

But some still look, and stammer, “He’s the One!”

How did I get here?  So, far from the forest green.

Nothing but a torture device, a cross for your Son!

How could this happen? Who could have forseen?

“God in heaven, do you know what you have done?”

Damned black bird, that planted me in the sewage,

Could you, did you have any idea of my ill-fated lot?

Was there an omen, or, some evil, dark-hearted sage,

That guided your selection and even my planted spot?

No!  that “ill-fated seed” grew into what He did foresee!

From such an ugly beginning, seemingly only an accident,

I was to become the Holy Cross on the Hill called Calvary.

He was in charge; never was I lost. Never was I forgotten!

What will become me?  What possibly, will next be?

From the hog pen?  What will be my next destination?

He says, “ornaments, decorations, and even jewelry!

But, really, it has been all about mankind’s salvation”?!

 

BOLT BUCKET

OLD BOLTS IN A BUCKET

          (today I was loaned out from the pulp mill to the powerhouse, to work on the ash sluice system; after the job was completed, I picked up the old bolts and put them in a ten-quart pail for disposal)

          The next stop is the scrap metal dumpster.  From there, who knows?!  Maybe the scrap man will take them to a smelter and they will leave the furnace as iron ingots for their next purpose.  They have served their purpose, fasteners for the sluice line flanges.  But, what next?!

          I am nearly sixty.  Questions of purpose and mortality nag.  I have two grown kids older than one of my crew mates.  I try to be useful and pull my weight; but … they make me a gopher much of the time.  (and, really, they are just, kindly, trying to take care of the old man)

          Against the backdrop of the millennia, what single life really matters?  That question surfaces.  Seemingly, we are only drops in a great river of human history.  The Cosmic Coach calls some good plays and makes a few look good.  But, even they play only a few seasons and then hang up their cleats.

          Growing old gracefully might be the point.  Sure, hold it together while “in the flange”.  But, soon, parts are replaced and new bolts installed.  The old ones go in the bucket and we are then tossed in the dumpster.

          I started out my existence from ore dug out of an iron mine, sent to a smelter to be refined, and then to a fastener manufacturer.  Then I was bought by this mill and ended up here in the power house holding together this flange.  Did my job for years.  Maybe I will continue on as a paper weight, for a while.  But, rust and stress have taken their toll.

          I do believe that I will be recycled and live on.  I will have a new form and live on, serving some new purpose.  Maybe I will even be forged and hammered into a sword for the angels?!

GONE FISHING

GONE FISHING

“…when the cat’s away, the mice will play…” is an old adage concerning what psychologists call external restraint (vs. internal restraint).  Another axiom is “real character is revealed when alone” (or, at least when one thinks he is hidden?!).  How does one live during the long stretches, during the lonely times, during the lulls, during the losses?  Does one exult on the mountain, or hide in the cave, like the prophet?  (Actually, Elijah did both; and James says we are not so different.)

Character is formed and revealed in a long series of life circumstances and choices.  One must ask, “do I routinely turn to the ‘dark side’ or rather to the ‘Light’ when confronted with difficulties and decisions?”  When one is down, does he wallow in the mud?  When vileness has been expelled, does one walk away disgusted, or like the proverbial pooch, return to the puke?!

I gently counseled a work buddy to think on his freshly restarted dipping and smoking.  His family life has “gone to Hell” and he seems to be returning to old haunts for the comfort he will find only in his Father, not his old failures.  When I kindly confronted him, he quickly, and aptly, replied, “you remember where Peter went right after his denial and His death?”  Peter, the Galilean fisherman, had gone fishing.  It’s not that fishing is sinful, it is just wrong – wrong for the man who “left his nets” to become a “fisher of men”!!  In other words, let’s not “put our hand to the plow, and then look back.”  And, let’s not “become entangled with civilian affairs.”

Being “gone fishing” can take on many forms.  It is likely different for each struggler.  We can lose ourselves in many different vain pursuits.  And, at the same time, these pursuits can be deeply meaningful in the Master’s scheme of things.  The difference seems to be in the purpose – losing ourselves, or finding ourselves.  Likely, some things will always be nothing but some fruitless escapism; but, many things can be redeemed for His purposes.

And, in Him, one finds true purpose, power, pleasure, peace.  The fleeting pleasures of sin are at best a mirage and at worst a quagmire.  The Liar is deceptive.  And too often, we enjoy his lies all the while suspecting them for just that?  We go to what is “seen” and “felt” instead of the unseen and spiritual.

Mixing the metaphors, let’s “swim upstream”.  Continuing the animal theme – choose:  hog to the mud, or dog to the puke, or soaring with the eagles?!  And, yet, have you ever watched an eagle fish?!  Gone fishing?  Think about it!