I was off from school for a few days. I had fallen and broken my wrist, and my arm was now encased in the dull white plaster-of-paris cast that would hold it captive through six weeks of uncomfortable “tonnage,” trickling sweat, and eventually, torturous itching. Fortunately, it was my left arm, and I was right-handed. Still, the doctor thought I needed a few days away from the robust, restless, jostling energy of a crowded village school.
I remember the return from the hospital, when my parents took me to Granny’s house on Back Street, and my dad announced that since I was off school, I would be his helper with his new project. My dad was always carving and creating and building. This time the project was a new bookcase.
Over the next few days, I was thrilled to be his helper. I tried my best to hold the strips of plastic laminate (generally called Arborite after the Canadian company that made them) firmly to the corner as he directed. But the truth is, I probably wasn’t much help at all.
As a child (and to this day!) I lacked the motor skills needed for building, and for craft and design of any kind. And of course, to add to my native clumsiness, here I was with a broken wrist, and a clunky cast almost up to my elbow. Still, my dad praised and encouraged me, and I proudly “helped” on, content just to be part of his project.
I marvel even more at the patience, and tenderness, and leniency my dad displayed during that building project when I realize how far he had stepped out of his usual level of tolerance. My brother, who later learned incredible building and construction skills under Dad’s tutelage, often regales us with stories of Dad’s witty critiques, and his hilarious verbal jabs against any slacking, half-heartedness, or incompetence.
But in my broken-limbed ten-year-old awkwardness, I found nothing but encouragement, approval, and easy comfort. And for years afterwards, I looked at that bookcase through eyes of pride, ownership, and loving partnership.
And although I never did learn much about carpentry, I gained a critical frame for understanding deeper truths about hurt, and healing, and a father’s love. A frame from which to later view important spiritual parallels.
The years and the constantly changing circumstances of life would reveal to me the even greater love of a heavenly Father who draws close in the midst of life’s brokenness and misfortune. A heavenly Father who heals wounds, binds up broken hearts, refreshes weary souls, and restores crushed spirits. I was to learn the heart of a God who stays by our side—a God who invites us into His perfect work, even when He knows our weaknesses, our frailties, and our limitations.
I am still learning. I am still learning that there is a freedom of soul despite our struggles with encasement, and tonnage, and pressure, and sweat and discomfort. I am still learning that our faithful God comes alongside in all our difficulties and offers comfort, closeness, companionship, instruction, and encouragement.
I am still learning Father-love.
