New Year’s Day found me standing in the garage, looking over a huge mess. It was the remains of a busy holiday season spent building gifts for anyone who asked. In the mad dash to deliver every order, housekeeping had clearly taken a low priority.
There wasn’t room for a pathway from one end of my shop to the other. Tools were strewn across any surface with an empty space. A film of sawdust covered everything. Dozens of pieces of wood lay scattered about.
The time had come to begin this McAfee family’s tradition of cleaning up, throwing out, and getting ready for the new year.
Opening the garage door let in fresh air and daylight, so I grabbed Kim’s lawn blower and blew as much of the dust outside as possible. Then one at a time, I picked up each tool and coiled its cord before putting it into its proper place. That left the pieces of leftover lumber. I separated the larger pieces of wood by species and threw them into their cubby holes.
Then I turned my attention to the thin strips, short end cuts, and damaged pieces that were too small for any productive use. I managed to overflow four 5-gallon buckets.
When I hoisted the first bucket to dump it into the trash, I stopped suddenly. Instead of throwing them out, I spread them across my work table. Anyone else would have seen a mess, but these were my memories.
There was a scrap of dark brown walnut left from a table that I built for my niece, Gabrielle. It was part of a group of gifts for my nieces that I had hoped to use as a bridge of sorts between our families. Connecting across generations is harder than I thought it would be.
The pile included the last, small remnants of light-colored, hard maple from my dad’s workbench. It was as old as me, and I remembered him working over it when I was a child. My first, clumsy efforts at woodworking started there too. Although the bench is now gone, I used the best pieces to make my son, James, a personalized cutting board and also made smaller items for my daughter, Erin, and niece, Michal.
Rough-sawn strips lay in the middle of the pile. On a recent trip to the lumber mill, I had stumbled across a trove of pecan wood. It reminded me of my mom’s soft, Southern style and how much I have missed her. I bought a huge board and carried it home with no idea what to do with it. It became part of the hulking, 25-pound, Thor’s hammer in my brother, Preston’s garage gym. Ironically terrible with words, this gift was my way of telling him “I’m proud of you. Yep. You’re worthy.”
Short blocks of rose-tinted cherry were left from coasters that I have sent into every possible home. The engraved messages vary, but they are share the message that God loves you. They are part of my ministry to shine His light into the world.
Remnants of exotic purpleheart were in the mix. They were offcuts from a 30-year-anniversary gift for Kim. Purple is a favorite color of hers, so I had bought it to make my first Romeo and Juliet serving boards. It is hard to find a means to communicate how thankful you are to someone.
Bits of red oak were vestiges of a dining table we had bought at a furniture store in rural Tennessee when the kids were toddlers. They grew up around that table. When our home rennovation required a larger table, I had converted the top into our coffee table. The small leftovers reminded me of meals and craft projects from the old days.
Other oak scraps were left from a shadow box I built to honor my grandfather, who was killed in WW2. Reading the letters he wrote home and surveying his war records introduced me to a man I wish I could have met. His tragic story opened my eyes to events that formed my family and raised my compassion toward traits of my loved ones that I never understood before.
Flame-colored pieces of padauk were also there. I got a wild idea to make a cutting board with a checkerboard design reminiscent of the University of Tennessee’s end zone for my sister-in-law, Pam. Although she was a few years ahead of Kim and I, we were all on our own there for the first time. Our worldviews expanded in those campus classrooms and dormitories. Wow. We were just kids back then.
Last, there were white-colored leftovers from an ash board. Preston asked me to make him a deadlift jack for his gym. I chose ash because it gave the look of a Louisville Slugger baseball bat. Kelly, Preston, and I grew up on ball fields in Nashville, watching dad play church softball and ultimately years of our own Little League. In ways, we are still tethered together to that long ago place and time.
With a sigh, I realized that I couldn’t throw these away. There were too many memories. But scraps piled into buckets had no place in my new year.
I had seen videos of people building cutting boards in a “chaos style”. They used random pieces to create a cluttered, chaotic pattern. Kim offered to help me put one together.
For the next weeks, I converted the scraps. It was painfully slow to cut the small pieces from seven different wood species into common sizes and glue them together. Fourteen separate glue-ups and a half-gallon of glue later, all of the parts were in place.
After the assembly, it took four hours to flatten and smooth everything to a glass-like finish. Although, it was beautiful when the construction was complete, nothing is quite as rewarding as the beauty that emerges when the protectant oil is applied.
This is unlike most projects that I build where symmetry, consistency, and order define craftsmanship. It is magnificent because of the pandemonium. Its appeal arises from its distinctiveness.
Woodworkers call this a Chaos Board. I call it my Self-Portrait.
My life is made up of a seemingly infinite number of brief memories, circumstances, and people I care about. They all fit together to form an arrangement that is unique to me.
Only I can recognize many of the strange pieces that make up my portrait. When I stare too closely, some of the parts look crooked, off-size, or blemished. Sometimes I worry that people can’t see past my countless irregularities, eccentricities and conflicting attributes to find out who I really am.
Like this board, I can seem like a mess. All of us do.
But if we stop focusing on the tiny details and pull back to see the whole picture, a beauty begins to materialize. It’s not accident or happenstance, it reflects the magnificent intention with which God designed us.
Even before I started construction, this board was intended for my sister, Kelly. She has been with me as each memory was born and each piece was formed.
Like me, Kelly’s life can be a disarrayed tempest of commotion that can seem like a mess if you stare too closely. But that’s not how I see her. Her pieces fit together exactly as they were planned. I see a beauty God envisioned before the world was born.
If you look at yourself or others and see things that aren’t quite right, maybe you are overlooking the artistry. What can appear as flaws are actually a composition that was fearfully and wonderfully made.
Have faith in the Creator and seek out the beauty that He created. You are more than a chaos board.
Whenever my younger brother, Preston, gets a picture texted to him from a friend or family member, he instinctively zooms in to full magnification and looks around for strange things hidden in the background. Sometimes he finds really funny stuff.
In the same way, I like to take my favorite memories of people and “zoom in” on the unique parts of our past. Celebrating the items and moments that only we know about is my way of celebrating people.
That is what carries me back to a particular memory from my childhood…
Preston and I spent our wonder years in Nashville’s northern suburbs. Madison was a typical mid-sized, Southern town with a heavy blue-collar influence. It was a great place to grow up.
Summers were different in those days. Vacations from school had fewer organized events than they do today. We spent most of our day unsupervised, playing outside in the yard until 3:30 when it got really hot and we retreated inside to watch black-and-white reruns of the Six Million Dollar Man and Gilligan’s Island until dinner, which came early at our house.
Like most of the homes on our street, our lot was a rambling acre and a half. Since none of the neighbors had fences, the space seemed even bigger, especially in the eyes of a child. Our empire was divided into three territories. The first was the front yard, which was the most visible from the street, but was too hilly for most things and generally sat empty.
The second was the area beside and immediately behind the house where we spent most of our time. It offered the best flat spots in our hilly yard and was close enough to the house to run in and out, grabbing whatever caught our attention. The garage was nearby and offered relief when the sun was too hot. The garden hose provided a cool drink when we needed it.
The third area included everything from the small creek to the edge of the great woods. We didn’t play back there much. It was full of those large piles of grass that burp out of the mower when everything is overgrown. It was basically a pasture area without smooth footing. Most of the time, it sat quietly empty.
That secluded territory was ruled by the Hedge Apple Tree. It was the reason for the tall grass and the absence of inflatable balls, bare feet, or traditional entertainment. The Tree determined how things were done in its quiet corner of the kingdom.
Depending on where you grow up, the tree has different names – Hedge Apple, Bodark, Osage Orange, or Horse Apple. They all refer to the same tree which is most recognized for the weird, green fruit it produces. Most of us have seen the “apples” laying on the ground somewhere. As small as a golf ball or larger than a softball, they have a bumpy texture that resembles a human brain with a sticky pitch inside that is hard to wash off your hands.
The part of the yard we referred to as “across the creek” was frequently used as a bowling alley. From a young age, Preston and I would attempt to roll the sticky green “apples” from their resting place under the Tree into the creek about a hundred feet away. As small children, it seemed an impossible achievement, but we dreamt of a day when we would be strong enough to bounce one clear across the creek.
Every summer we could roll them a little further than the previous year, and we measured our progress much like a parent would mark a kid’s height on a door jamb.
The Hedge Apple Tree demanded a special lawnmower for its part of the yard. The inflatable tires on the riding mower were no match for its thorns. Dad firmly told us never to use the big mower back there, but he must have suspected that we did when he found all of its tires were flat.
Dragging the small lawnmower with the hard plastic tires all the way “across the creek” took thirty extra minutes that seemed like hours. Although our lives had no other demands on our time, we avoided the drudgery and hurriedly used the wrong mower hoping for the best.
Occasionally, we would have to trim the Tree’s drooping branches. They hung low to the ground and the sharp thorns would snare anything that brushed by. As we dragged the cut branches back to the rubbish pile, we would wince each time our carelessness allowed a thorn to tear across our hands, arms or legs, reminding us to respect the Tree and its rule over an untamed province.
One day, Dad decided that the time had come to cut down the Hedge Apple Tree. I don’t know why but maybe he will explain in the Comments below. After he dropped it, we drug off the branches leaving the exposed stump. One uneventful day, Preston and I pretended we were lumberjacks, retrieving the small, C-shaped tree saw from the garage and setting to work shortening the stump by a few inches.
The saw was just big enough for each of us to grab one end so we took turns pushing and pulling while sawdust flew out of the crack. However, the famously hard wood quickly tired us and the sawdust stream slowed to a trickle. Before long, our arms gave out completely. After multiple attempts, we gave up and moved on to other amusement. Even in death, the Hedge Apple Tree was defiant. “One day” we thought ” we will be strong enough to cut that stump.”
When the Tree was gone, it seemed like a good riddance. No more thorns, no sticky apples. No reasonable person would plant a hedge apple tree in their yard. As yards gradually converted from pastures into park-like lawns, the lowly hedge apple tree was forced to surrender its place to the new order.
It was years after the Tree was cut down that I learned the proud heritage of the Osage Orange – named after the Osage Indians and adopted by them and the Cherokees to fashion bows from the tough wood. Even the word Bodark is derived from the French “bois d’arc” meaning “wood of the bow”.
Later, the early settlers planted them between their crops and cattle as a “hedge” since the draping, thorny branches kept their animals from crossing over and eating crops that would be needed to survive the early, harsh winters. As the “apples” fell, horses would occasionally swallow them whole which earned their Horse Apple name.
In simpler times, hedge apple trees proudly held a position of importance.
However, guns gradually replaced the bow-and-arrow, and barbed wire was invented in 1873. The Industrial Revolution diminished the relevance of the trees and they became the randomly scattered, scruffy trees we recognize today.
With the fall of each hedge apple tree, the world became a more controlled and cultured place. My lawn’s garden beds may now be colorful and balanced, but part of me longs for the unruly conditions “across the creek”. These may be safer times, but I miss the days of kids running wild for hours exploring the world that God gave us and testing the limits of their imaginations.
The change for Preston and I was inevitable. Every summer we grew a little bit taller and explored further beyond our familial borders. We gradually abandoned the Lost Boys of Neverland in favor of building the lives we had been dreaming about.
For Preston’s birthday this year, I wanted to build something reminiscent of good times we have shared. That is when I remembered the old Hedge Apple Tree. It represents an untroubled time in our lives when the two of us were inseparable. As its reign ended, our lives sometimes moved in different directions. However, we have stayed close through it all. Decades later, we are able to see life through a special lens that only we share.
There will always be a part of us that is still standing together on a lazy, hot summer day “across the creek” bowling apples and laughing at the erratic, bouncing paths they take or cheering when they occasionally explode into pieces. Then and now, we are content to share seemingly insignificant moments that serve as stepping stones into our future days.
Excited by the chance to build something that heralded back to yesteryear, I decided to build a cutting board from the same type of wood we have remembered so often. It took days to find a lumber mill crazy enough to convert the rock-hard hedge apple logs into dimensioned boards, but I finally found one. After days of work, I’m going to need a new saw blade and more sandpaper, but all of the sweat and persistence paid off.
The board is surprisingly heavy for its size and features a grain pattern that is different than any I’ve ever seen before. The tung oil finish should provide lasting protection to its one-of-a-kind beauty. One side features a giant-size version of the “Mc” logo that Preston designed for me and that represents our family on everything I build. I’m pleased with the result.
Hopefully it will serve you well, Preston, for years to come. If it ever needs to be sanded down and re-surfaced, then just let me know. You will have to sharpen your own knives though, because I expect it will hold up defiantly through any use that you put it through.
Two years have passed since the prayer garden at the Salvation Army in Lewisville was completed. If you don’t know the story of its creation, there are several earlier posts you can read. I remember looking over it with pride, every detail finished.
There were interviews that gave me the chance to explain to people that the location was special. It is the gateway to the downtown area which now offered a meeting place with God. To the throngs of people who pass through every day, it is a quiet invitation to spend time with the Father.
If you were to drive up or walk by, a nine-foot, lighted cross is the first thing to capture your attention before the beautiful flowers and colorful shrubs draw you in. Benches are scattered about as an invitation to come and sit for a spell. But my favorite piece has always been the large rock at the foot of the cross. Water flows from the top, out of a lighted ring that makes it look like an unquenchable fire as it pours out of the stone and into the ground, never running dry.
This water feature was paintstakingly constructed with its own water reservoir and electric source. It is automatically filled and given a rest for a couple hours each night around 2am while the city sleeps.
However, I’ve never told anyone the real reason that it was built to run fully automatically and totally attention-free.
My passion is building but my attention span is short which encourages me to flit from project to project, creating beautiful things but moving on as quickly as possible. While I was building the garden, God kept asking me if I would watch over it, keeping it ready for him to meet with people.
In truth, I had no interest in checking on it every week to see if it was in proper order and the plants were healthy. I was relieved when some of the people who were served by the Salvation Army eventually adopted it. Johnny in particular has watered it nearly every day to guarantee it stays beautiful. Fortunately, other people also pitched in for replanting and seasonal upkeep.
But the voice never went away, asking if I would watch over it. I knew that no one would expect me to be the constant caretaker, so I didn’t tell anyone about the recurring voice. Instead I did my best to build it to be so durable that it would never require my attention. Dusk-to-dawn sensors turned lights on and off. Self-metering pumps watered plants and kept the fountain’s reservoir full. Timers gave the mechanics a rest each day.
Content that I would never have to answer the voice’s question, I moved on to the next thing that consumed my focus. However, the question continued to echo across the coming days, weeks, and months – for two years.
Over the past couple weeks, it grew so loud that it could no longer be ignored. So I waited until I was totally alone and traveled almost in secret to check on the sacred spot, hoping to prove the concerns were all in my imagination.
That is how this past Saturday morning found me seated in the prayer garden choking back tears. The rock that used to impossibly gurgle living water had stopped flowing. There was no way to tell how long it had sat in disrepair. It was now merely a lifeless slab of stone at the foot of a cross that seemed better suited to cover a tomb than to serve as a reminder of a risen savior.
The open invitation to share time with a living Father had become little more than a somber memorial to a great sacrifice.
It was my fault. I knew that until He released me, that the responsibility to maintain this space was mine. But each time the quiet voice reminded me, I treated it like a salesman knocking on the front door.
I had abandoned my post, and the garden had lost its spark. Now the space sat empty.
It was still long before shops opened, so there were no cars buzzing by and no one walking the sidewalks. Sitting on my favorite bench gave me time to consider the events of the past two weeks, starting with a friend giving me a book (God’s Favorite House by Tommy Tenney).
I wasn’t looking for something to read. I had more jobs lined up than could be counted. I threw it onto the kitchen counter and promptly ignored the tugging to see what was inside. Eventually I felt guilty seeing it stare at me each time I passed, so I threw it into my work backpack where it wouldn’t bother me. But it still called out.
On my flight home from a business trip, the airplane’s wi-fi failed, my phone wouldn’t work, and I was faced with three hours of watching at the seatback in front of me. So I reached in my bag and pulled out the book.
Every page seemed to remind me of the garden and God’s question, “Will you take care of it?” The author explained that I did not understand the importance of the job that I had abandoned. Scriptural markers cautioned me, but I hadn’t wanted to listen. If I had, here is what they would have said.
* Jesus stands at the door and knocks (Rev 3:20). He doesn’t force his way into our lives.
* If we don’t prioritize opening the door for him, then he will move on (Song of Songs 5).
David understood this when he said that he would prefer the seemingly low job of watching the door for God to come through than to enjoy all the riches of this earth.
That is how this hot Saturday morning found me back in the prayer garden. God had given me the chance to open the door for him, but I had lost interest. For minutes that seemed to stretch into eternity, I prayed for forgiveness. I prayed that he would not abandon this place, turning it from sacred into common. I asked for another chance.
The next few hours were spent diagnosing the problem with the water pump and lights before going to Home Depot to find new electrical fittings, researching online for replacement parts, and carefully fitting things together again.
So I sat on my knees at the foot of the cross, my hands busy as I invited his spirit to flow again. I finished putting all of the broken pieces back together. Then with great anticipation, I grasped the plug and pushed it into the outlet, praying that that it would come back to life.
As if in answer to my pleading, the instant the power surged then the water first coughed, then gurgled and began flowing smoothly.
A voice behind me suddently pulled me from my thoughts.
“I wondered how long it would be before you came back.”
Turning around, I noticed an older man with gray hair and a long flowing beard sitting on one of the benches. He said that the fountain had stopped working a couple weeks ago (at the same time my friend gave me the book). He had wondered if anyone would come to fix it or not.
The next half hour was spent chatting with the stranger. He told me about the weather. He wondered where a memorial stone for a fallen friend had disappeared to. He exhaustively reflected on a camp in Minnesota he had visited as a child.
This time I sat patiently, like a doorkeeper should.
The water was flowing again.
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness. Psalm 84:10
I’ve been watching a story lately. It is a modern take on an age-old tale. It is about a brother and sister who are young adults born into a special purpose. However while they are seeking their destinies, everyone they encounter seems to have their own plans for their future.
All sorts of media – internet, television, movies, etc seem to conspire to guide them along a path that shares a system of beliefs. It is a doctrine of success that is based on comfort – eliminating all unpleasantness from their lives. Of course each voice has something to sell, guaranteed to be “just the thing” they need. Amazingly, none of these talking heads need to know anything about them in order to determine that they have the right answer for them. The obvious nonsense is easy to filter out, but the subtleties are harder to notice and influence them without their being aware.
It’s OK, who really looks to media for answers, right?
Their expanded family presents a different picture. Each relative knows them well and has an image of the path they should follow. However they wonder if these paths will lead to the destinies that call them, or hearken to to the teller’s desires. The brother and sister feel that when they reveal parts of themselves, the family uses it as a transition to steer them back to the prescribed pathway. Are they advising the best path for them, or are they pushing into something they want for themselves?
They love these people, but in ways feel very alone as they try to find their unique purpose.
Work gives them a chance to learn their strengths and begin to catch a glimpse of what lies ahead of them. However, answers again precede questions as their bosses expain to them how to achieve success. Their messaging is clearly tainted by a focus on delivering profitabilty to the organization. Success is promised if their contributions align with the company’s goals but they are cautioned against asking coworkers specific questions about how they are compensated for their contributions.
How can they trust answers that discourage questions? Again, they feel alone in their pursuit.
The church is featured occasionally. They sit through services where the communication is all one-way. While questions erupt from their hearts, screens tell them the specifc words to sing before the speaker talks at length without ever listening to the people in the room. Again, they are told what they should believe and they try to filter what someone else tells them, trying to determine whether they believe what they are hearing. But their questions can’t rise above the constant voices.
It is a world that features answers in abundance without time to wait for questions.
However, this story is not playing out on a screen, in print, or across a stage. The story I am watching is my kids growing up.
Sometimes it is hard to admit that I am one of the voices that won’t shut up long enough to let them finish a thought. Only after a botched conversation do I realize that instead of helping them to search for answers to their questions, I have been one more person shouting solutions.
I forget that growing up is more about the search for wisdom than it is achieving it. Even worse, my words ring hollow when I tell them what they should do to better themselves while I relax, comfortable in my situation.
Jesus took a different approach. After watching us fall from grace, he watched as The Father gave us answers written on stone tablets and carefully detailed through Moses. He described how to know the heart of God and deal with life’s situations. However these clear instructions weren’t enough to prevent them from drifting further from his presence. The works of scripture expanded and grew, but this increase didn’t fill the void in their hearts.
And when The Word was not enough to save us, he became flesh and lived among us.
Jesus is beautiful and unique because he recognized that telling us wasn’t enough. He had to live as an example.
When we didn’t know how to honor our fathers and mothers, Jesus became a child and modeled it for us. When we weren’t sure how to balance work and pleasure, he got a job as a carpenter. When we didn’t hear answers to our prayers, he prayed with us. When we couldn’t determine what was fair, he sacrificed himself.
I bet there were days when Jesus wanted to lose his patience and shout out answers for the world to hear. But for thirty years God told him to practice first, to show us instead of telling us.
During his life, he endured every trial that faces us today. If he hadn’t, then his sacrifice would be inadequate to redeem us. In the end, it will be his life, not his words, that guide us to salvation.
So maybe all of us should just turn down the volume on all of the answers we are giving.
As a parent, it is hard for me to follow Jesus’ example. When I want my kids to respect me, I have to stop talking at them and instead treasure my own dad. When I want to tell them to trust me and take chances, I need to let them see me take risks first.
In truth, I can’t imagine what it is like to be either of my kids today. But that’s OK, they didn’t ask me to be them. All they need is for me to try to become the person I tell them to be.
That is a lot.
The more I try to let my life be a sermon without words, the more patient I am learning to be in listening to them. They are right. This stuff is hard.
In a world overflowing with answers, it is time for the word to become flesh. May I leave behind all of the comforts of my heaven – the pleasant life of habit that I have settled into over the decades. May I find the courage to abandon my palace in search of a continuing life of serving, of forgiving people before they ask, of worshipping God with great passion, and of taking giant leaps of faith toward a God of mystery.
My life of testimony is valuable while it highlights a pursuit of wisdom. It is distant and disconnected when it becomes comfortably stagnant. Why should they believe me when I tell them that life has amazing things in store for them unless my own life points toward a reckless pursuit of an expanding eternity, instead of finding a comfortable stopping-off place?
All of my actions must speak louder than any of my words.
I am trying to help them love their family by reaching out to relatives that have, for whatever reason, drifted away. May they admire my courage in taking chances more than they admire any talent I demonstrate.
I am trying to recognize their God-given gifts and submit to them in those areas where they are greater than I will ever be.
I am trying to serve them in ways that respect their need to find their own paths, not looking for angles to push them along my dreams for them.
In all of these ways, the word becomes flesh and dwells among us. That is the light that drives out darkness.
May that provide a light unto their path while their great destinies become revealed.
During a slow time this past Saturday, Kim and I dropped by the Walmart Superstore. It was my idea. I had shopping to do.
First, I rushed to the cereal aisle and bought a Family Size box of chocolate Lucky Charms. Thinking better of it, I got two. On the way across the store, we saw shamrock-shaped sugar cookies encrusted with green sprinkles. Into the cart with them also. Next stop was the promotional display where I found a packet of temporary tattoos – pots of gold, leprechauns, the works. Kim selected a gift bag with gold flecks and some green tissue paper to dress it up.
We were on our way to Erin’s house to deliver her gifts.
You might not be surprised that a guy named McAfee who named his daughter Erin (an old name for Ireland) would be a fan of St Patrick’s Day. You’d be right, but probably not for the reasons you think.
St. Patrick’s Day is a rare treat for people of faith. While the world is celebrating with green beer, dressed in green, and pretending to be Celtic for a day, they are suddenly open to hearing the real story of St. Patrick.
If you don’t know it, then you are in for a treat bigger than Erin’s cookies.
Patrick was born in Briton during the closing days of the Roman empire. He was the wealthy son of a senator and tax collector who enjoyed a life of luxury in an expansive villa. He probably overheard conversations his father had about the crumbling condition of empire and the sorry state of affairs in Rome, but he was too busy being a child to care. What difference could such things matter to him?
He had time to spend with his grandfather, Pontius, who was a member of the church clergy. Pontius taught the boy about scripture and the nature of God, but Patrick wasn’t interested in such things. He had more important things to occupy his time. What difference could such things matter to him?
He learned how wrong he was on both matters on the same day. With the Roman army busy defending Rome, no one was left to guard the coast from marauding Irish pirates. When they invaded his villa, overthrowing any minimal resistance, they took everything of value and then grabbed him and drug him back to their ship. Alone in the world, he cried out to a God he was previously disinterested in, but no one came to save him.
Days later he was sold as a slave Ireland. His “owner” attached an iron band around his neck to mark him as a slave. The law of the land was clear on this matter. If Patrick removed the band, he was punishable by death. Anyone who assisted him with the removal would share his punishment. The carefree, wealthy teenager had become the lowest form of person. He was property.
His job became tending to the animals. Poorly dressed and fed, he suffered miserably on cold nights in distant pastures with the animals. With no one to talk to, he reached out to the only one who was always there. God.
For six long years as he endured his fate, he became changed. The spoiled child was replaced by a humbled man. The disinterested believer found God during his time alone. What had been intended for evil became a force of grace in his life.
One day, the Lord spoke to him. He told him that his time as a slave was ending. Emboldened by the revelation, Patrick escaped. He travelled stealthily to a coast two hundred miles away, ever vigilant to anyone he encountered. Would they drag him back to his owner, or risk their own lives to help him remove the cursed iron band around his neck?
Eventually he encountered a ship’s captain who agreed to remove his band, likely in exchange for more forced labor, and his escape was complete. He made his way back to his ancestral home only to find that he no longer belonged there. Any connection to that place had vanished when he did.
With nowhere else to turn, he found a church and began to study the God he met in the pastures of Ireland. The work ethic he had gained served him well and he threw himself into his studies. No longer a slave shepherd with animals, he became a priest that lacked a flock.
Then God spoke to him a second time, calling him back to Ireland.
I can imagine his reaction made Jonah seem timid. They were unbelievers who had enslaved him. There were no Christians on the entire island. Worse, he was marked for death upon his return as an escaped slave.
God persisted.
Patrick relented and boarded a ship back to Ireland. Once there, he searched out his former owner and threw himself upon his mercy. To his relief, he was fully pardoned.
Thus began his efforts to convert druids and Celts of all types to Christianity. His patience in explaining the ways of the Kingdom became the stuff of legends. When he travelled to a new place, he would shove his walking stick into the ground and leave it there until he finished his teaching. He spent so much time in one locale that his stick was said to have sprouted roots and begun growing into a tree.
Whether this miracle occured or not is less important than the tenacity it represents. Patrick was determined to share his faith.
As believers multuplied, the church took hold and grew. Patrick became regarded as the Bishop of Ireland. It was a golden time of expansion of God’s kingdom.
Then rumors began to circulate that Patrick was taking gifts from wealthy patrons to make himself wealthy again. He viciously denied these reports but they would not go away.
To defend hmself, Patrick wrote a book titled “The Confessio” that contains most of what we now know of his life. Once again, attacks that were meant to hurt him were used for good by a loving Father.
The people of Ireland may love St. Patrick because he brought them Christianity. I love him because his story speaks to us today – risking everything to follow God’s voice, plans for harm used for good by His hand, and a tenacious life of purpose that expands God’s kingdom.
We all need some Patrck in our lives.
On every St. Patrick’s Day, I hope you start off with Lucky Charms and wear green from head to toe. If someone offers to share a green beer with you, then take them up on it. Somewhere during all of it, you can ask them the same question I have posed so many times.
