The Master’s Hand

I remember the day well. It was a warm, early summer day a number of years ago. It was a day during which I would learn a most valuable lesson.

 

I had been working as brick layer's helper for a few years. Carrying brick, mixing mortar, and shoveling mortar filled my days. But, today a different door opened. An opportunity arose which I could hardly resist.

 

Today, this afternoon, I was caught up. I was serving two bricklayers and both had lots of brick in front of them. Their mortar boards were full and a wheel barrow of freshly mixed, creamy mortar waited nearby. I had a chance to catch my breath.

 

Then it happened. Today would be the day I would start the journey of moving from being a helper to being a brick layer. My boss was an expert bricklayer, a craftsman, an artist. He was renowned in the community for his superior skills.

He was a Master Bricklayer. He was my Dad.

 

Since I was caught up, my Dad told me to start laying some bricks.

 

"Take the trowel from the mixer", he said.

 

The trowel from the mixer? Are you kidding? A bricklayer's trowel is a prized tool. It is crafted of the highest quality material. It is expensive. It is thoughtfully selected by the individual for its size and shape. It is treated as special; it receives special attention in cleaning and storage every night.

 

The trowel from the mixer was none of these. It was cheap. It was the bargain bin special. It was low quality. It was dirty.

 

Worst of all, it was bent out of shape. Some helper had dropped it into the mixer a couple of times and it had acquired a nice round shape. The trowel from the mixer was garbage; certainly not suitable for use by a bricklayer.

 

But, the trowel was hammered straight and placed in my hand. I was eager to get started down this road to becoming a bricklayer so I figured I could work with this tool. I took my position next to the wall and with the smooth motion I had seen so many times, I scooped some mortar onto the trowel. Then, with a flick of the wrist, I laid down a bed of mortar. Instead, though, of having it going down smoothly like I had seen the Master do so often, it went "plop".

 

Certainly that is not right. So I scooped the mortar up and tried again. A real bricklayer makes it look so easy. Splat. I began to look for excuses. This really can't be so difficult. Another try. Same result.

 

It must be the trowel. It is beaten up, hammered out, neglected, flawed. This trowel most definitely was not an acceptable tool. I would need a new one if I were to become a bricklayer.

 

My Dad, the Master, sensed my frustration and came over to check my progress.

He took the trowel from hand. He scooped some mortar on the old trowel and with the fluid motion I had seen so many times, he laid down the perfect bed of mortar.

 

The lesson I learned that day had less to do with bricklaying and more to do with life. The tool does not accomplish the work. It matters not how beat up, how ugly, how flawed, how hammered out the tool is. The result of the work can be beautiful, perfect.

 

The Bible says "we are God's workmanship" (Ephesians 2:10). God created me perfectly. He knit me together while I was still in my mother's womb (Psalm 139:13). God didn't make a mistake with me. He created me with a purpose. Even though I feel beat up, dirty, cheap, and it feels like I've been through the mixer a few times, my value has not decreased. Even when I feel as though I can accomplish nothing of value, God's hand makes all the difference.

 

What I learned on that sunny afternoon is that it is not about the tool. It is the touch of the Master's hand.

 

This Has Gone Too Far

I finally got around to fixing a leaky faucet in our house. For the process, I needed my propane torch, which, of course, had an empty bottle of propane attached. Seems that nothing ever goes well when I want to make a quick repair. Long story short, I went to Canadian Tire to buy a bottle of propane for my torch.

The poor lady at the store must have thought I had gone insane. For, you see, I found myself laughing quite loudly while standing in the plumbing supply isle. Usually when I am in public, I try to suppress my laughter so as to not draw attention to myself. But this time, I just could not.

Keep in mind I was buying propane. You know, the gas that burns. That gas that is supposed to burn. The entire reason I was buying this was to burn it. I was not planning on buying a pretty blue bottle so that I could put it on top of the cabinets for decoration. Nor was I buying this to feed to my dog or play some obscure sport with. Nope, the reason I was purchasing propane was to set it on fire.

And that is precisely why I burst out laughing. For on the bottle of propane was written the warning: "Contents May Catch Fire". Oh geez. After spending $5, the contents better catch fire.