please ignore any signs of insanity or grammatical bolshevism. it was late and wonderful and my my my.
carpentry. what a feeling.
no, not the feeling of self-consciousness due to undertaking tasks I've never even heard of before, nevertheless going in without technology as my muse and guide.
and no, not the feeling of aching bones and pulling muscles in an attempt to be a construction worker. (just minus the fluorescent vest and add in a unisex homemade robe).
I'm talking about the feeling of replicating his actions -- or at least my own skewed version of what I believe He did. I'm sure He never sawed off a friend's leg or narrowly escaped hammering off a thumbnail. but there was something humbling + perceptive about dressing how He must have, doing His own work of woodwork + carpentry, and working alongside the very descendants of the people He preached to. not to mention being in the same town He spent 30 years of his life in, on a farm site that long outlived his life. just me + the nails + my futile attempts at recreating.
but then, isn't that what this life is all about? isn't this a somehow overall encompassing definition of my faith and mission as a Christian? I survey the wondrous cross. I look to his moments of weary compassion and unending love and try to make it live in my heart. I try to use his example of "yes" in the face of impossible, of love in the face of cold hearts + bagged eyes, and make it something. but it's a human and flawed example of the small taste I've had. it's a sour flavour compared to the ability of unending good He is.
I just can't believe that after all that time He spent around people, He never gave up. I can't believe that all the time He spent around nails, He didn't run away from the cross. His life's work became His death.
what a sick + twisted irony.