My Father’s Workshop

By Cyndi

When I was a little girl, I used to love to go out back into my father’s workshop. It was a separate building behind our house where he had a big table saw, a long place to work on and tools hanging on nails all along the walls. Sheets of plywood of all different sizes from various projects were leaning on one side of the room, and a cabinet with multiple boxes of nails, screws, washers and other things was mounted on the far corner.  Underneath the table my dad kept a bucket of scrap wood just for me.  I could use anything in it to pound nails into or create and build whatever I wanted. Sawdust was everywhere so I got a bit dusty at times, but I liked the smell of it.

I loved hanging out with my father “out back,” as we would say, because he was always working on something and I just liked being around him. It was fun. We built all kinds of things, everything from shelves for the hall closet to a deck around our above-ground pool. My job was usually the holder, you know, the one who holds the end of the board while it’s being sawed so it doesn’t break off and fall.  But for me it wasn’t so much about working on a project necessarily, it was about spending time together.

He would explain how all the different tools were used for different reasons, how sometimes it’s better to use screws instead of nails, how particle board is different from masonite, how sometimes you use fine sandpaper instead of rough, all that kind of stuff. One of my favorite things was using his chisel set to chisel out my name or some design in a piece of wood. He would show me how to gently tap it to make smaller dents or to use a thick one and hit it hard if I was taking a whole section out. It was a time of impartation, of communion. It was a time of sharing.

I often picture myself with Father God “out back” in a workshop. It’s not so much about what we’re working on—I have plenty of things in my life to work on, for sure—but it’s about having communion with Him. Sometimes I just read one or two scriptures and let Him explain it to me, like my dad did with the tools. Sometimes I pull thoughts or dreams from my “scrap bucket” and want to just create—thinking, talking, singing, joking—no real agenda. But that’s it—no real agenda. Simply fellowship. Much is imparted to me simply by being in His presence. We’re spending time together, and there are even moments when I think I smell sawdust.