My boss is a Norwegian carpenter,
a legendary master craftsman nearing the end of a storied career.
He decides to speak and it's time for me to learn.
He tells me stories and names the Crape Myrtles,
I've always seen but never looked at before.
He colors in their bygone, black and white faces
with brand new blooms.
His mother, a world renown author and story-teller.
Her mother, from the woods of Canada who depended on miracles
from a God who is ever-faithful.
His father, a traveling preacher who's heart for broken people
almost broke his own.
His family, his children, his love for sports and hunting.
And all the cracks, the madness, the attacks
his family continues to endure in their chase for God.
The miraculous is interwoven with bitter tears and loose, untidy endings
here in Myrtle Grove, North Carolina.

I stand here by myself sometimes
in the darkened old beautiful, rustic boathouse.
I stare at the unfinished projects, the scraps of wood,
the antique furniture,
the sawdust, cobwebs, and neglected machinery.
Chairs hang from nails on the walls and ceilings.
When will they be repaired and who will take them down from their crosses?
I wonder.
He and I are both starting over, recovering from broken hearts
as we laugh together and restore beauty to old and damaged pieces.

Pages turn slowly sometimes and dust settles where we find ourselves stuck.
Faith is working with the tangibles while waiting for the unseen
to breathe.
When I hear stories from the past I treasure their offerings of inspiration,
inviting me to hope,
to come down from my place hanging from the wall,
and rest my feet firmly on the ground until my roots take hold.
My soul hums in tune with the sounds they left behind.
My heart will sing no other name... Jesus, Jesus.
Here in Myrtle Grove, North Carolina.

03/25/2012

Author's Note: This poem is about my job working at The Master's Touch. www.facebook.com/masterjensen www.mastershoppe.com

Posted on 03/25/2012
Copyright © 2024 Tim D Livingston