The Scent of Wood

The Scent of the Wood

Learning a trade from a father was essential. A tradition of following in a father’s footsteps. And so this young man obeys by mimicking the work of his father’s hands.

In the humble beginning of his apprenticeship, he is learning from his father to carve out the design of the wood, to slide his hands across the wood and feel the grain, and to carry stacks of wood.

Still a young lad and learning his trade, he needs the direction of his father’s callused hands to guide his unskilled hands, which now need a little rest.

Stepping away from the carpenter’s bench, he walks outside the shop to take a break from his work and stretch his back.

Standing in the warm, noon sun, he picks at another of the daily splinters in his hands, as the rhythm of the hammer pounds in the background. Extending his arms toward the sky, he says a prayer of thanksgiving to God the Father.

He breathes in fresh air to rid his nostrils of sawdust. First shaking his head to dislodge more sawdust tangled in his hair, he then removes his sandals and shakes out the wood shavings.

As the sun’s warmth soothes his aching muscles, he wonders when he first loved the savory aroma of wood. From the stories his father has told him, he decides the first whiffs seeped into his memory from the wooden trough at his birth.

When that dreadful day of agony came, did it revive all those scented memories of His childhood? All harbingers of torment upon a wooden cross.

What did those harbingers herald? 

• Stepping aside from His carpenter’s life meant stepping into His glorified life.
• The sawdust that clung to His hair now exchanged for a crown of thorns encircling His head.
• Stretching His sore back could never compare to the excruciating pain from the flesh-revealing stripes received from a scourging.
• The removing of His sandals to rid them of sawdust; now removing them reveals His feet for nine inch nails.
• The wood He once carried on His shoulders was exchanged for a cross-beam along the Via Dolorosa.
• His hands, once suffering splinters from sliding them across the grain of the wood, now feeling the pain of puncture from the shards of the wooden cross-beam.
• The hammer that pounded in the background now pounds in rhythmic timbre upon the nail heads, piercing His hands.
• The memory-scent of the wood, embedded in His nostrils, infuses His soul as the punctured wood releases that familiar fragrance.
• The fresh air He so easily breathed in, now barely makes it into His nostrils as He struggles to breathe.
• His muscles that ached from work now throb from the pain of crucifixion, which no soothing sun can ever relieve.
• His arms extended once again...in prayer to His Father.

Following His heavenly Father’s guidance, this young Man obeyed...unto death.

And the scent of the wood was released from obedience. A sweet aroma to the Father.

Easter blessings, Lynn

Lynn Mosher loves to dig into God’s Word and treasure hunts for golden nuggets along the road Home. Lynn lives with her hubby (since 1966) in their Kentucky nest, emptied now of three kidlets and embracing three giggly grand-chicklets. Her greatest passion is to share those nuggets in her devotionals and inspirational stories, fulfilling God’s call on her life to encourage others and glorify the Lord. Lynn writes monthly for several sites and bi-weekly at her online residence, Heading Home. 

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Home Movies and a Person of Importance

By Marcia Laycock

Crowds Waiting for the Parade

Watching old home movies can be a hoot, especially if the amateur moviemaker was as technologically challenged as my father was. We have reams of family memories on film, but you have to know the people well to figure out who they are. “Oh look, that’s Mom’s knee ... isn’t it?” “And Ron’s feet. I’m sure those are Ron’s feet!” When my parents made a trip to San Francisco, the camera went along. A few weeks later the rest of the family enjoyed seeing China Town - superimposed over an inverted Golden Gate Bridge. It was a little blurry, but no one seemed to mind.

On one occasion my father relinquished his camera to my eldest brother. He was somewhat better at capturing the significant events of our lives on film. In fact, the footage he took on the main street of our hometown, one day in the mid 1960’s, could be called a classic. It’s a bit bouncy, but that was because Ron was running as he filmed. It’s a bit blurry, but that’s because the vehicle he was filming wouldn’t slow down. In spite of these disadvantages, my brother managed to capture a brief picture of Queen Elizabeth II, waving to a large crowd.

Well, okay, the film isn’t really a classic, but somehow it does capture the wild enthusiasm of the people. We see them leaning forward, smiling, hands upraised, eager to dispense their praise as the procession flows by. Somehow that blurred, bouncy film makes you lean forward eagerly too, straining for a brief glimpse of that person of importance.

Such was the atmosphere surrounding the triumphant entry of Jesus into Jerusalem. The crowd leaned in, chanting their praise, waving their palm branches, laying them at the feet of their hero. “Hosanna to the Son of David!” they cried, “Hosanna in the highest!” (Matthew 21:1-11). If we had been among them, we would have been chanting and waving palm branches too. This was indeed a man of importance, they said, “This is Jesus, the prophet from Nazareth in Galilee.”

A few days later they crucified Him. When He rode into Jerusalem they thought He might take over the city, or set himself up as a King, or at the very least, lead a revolt. Instead, He allowed himself to be arrested. He allowed the hated Romans to beat Him and execute Him. And He did nothing to save Himself. So those who had leaned in close with praises on their lips now spat on Him and demanded his death.

If we had been among them, we would have done the same. But His mercy and grace is poured out on us anyway, as it was on those who were there that day. The procession Jesus led into the city looked like a triumph and His death looked like a defeat. In reality,

His death was His victory.

In reality, His death was our victory. “Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest!”
****

Marcia Lee Laycock writes from central Alberta Canada where she is a pastor's wife and mother of three adult daughters. She was the winner of The Best New Canadian Christian Author Award for her novel, One Smooth Stone. The sequel, A Tumbled Stone was short listed in The Word Awards. Marcia also has two devotional books in print and has contributed to several anthologies. Her work has been endorsed by Sigmund Brouwer, Janette Oke, Phil Callaway and Mark Buchanan.

Abundant Rain, an ebook devotional for writers can be downloaded here.

Her most recent release is the first book in a fantasy series, The Ambassadors

Visit Marcia’s Website

Sign up to receive her devotional column, The Spur

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A Good Cleaning

By Marcia Lee Laycock

It’s that time of year again – time for spring cleaning. We’ve been doing a lot of it lately, and not just in our own home. We’re helping missionary friends get their home ready to be put on the rental market. It’s a big job and when we saw the condition of the house after the last tenants moved out, we despaired of getting it done quickly. But when several people showed up for a work bee, we were thrilled. They came with rags and mops, rubber gloves and sponges, shovels and rakes, and they set about giving the place a good cleaning.

There was a team assigned to the garage, one inside the house and one outside. Before long the whole area was a hive of activity. I was working with the crew inside so didn’t see what was happening outside until it was almost time to leave. I was stunned when I saw the transformation. When we arrived the yard had been matted with old leaves and grasses, a web of winter mould laying on top. The flower beds were quite ugly, with dead growth carpeting the soil, smothering anything that might have been trying to grow. 

Several men had gone to work with rakes and shovels and the result was obvious. I was surprised to even see some green shoots coming up in the lawn. Then a friend pointed out the bright green shoots in the garden – crocuses, tulips and irises were pushing through. 

As I bent to examine them it made me think of the work God does in our lives. We sometimes must look as dreary and dead as that yard looked, layered with the leavings of old sin and covered with the webs of guilt that threaten to smother us. But God is in the business of giving us all a good cleaning.

How thankful we should be that Jesus has cleared all the rubbish away, just as surely as those rakes and shovels cleaned that yard. He did it by his death, the death we will celebrate in only a few short days. It seems odd to say those two words in the same sentence – death and celebrate. His is the only death I know of that is celebrated, by the people who say they love Him. We celebrate it because His death means our release, His suffering means our freedom and His mercy means we will have life everlasting. That’s why we call it Good Friday. 

And that’s why we celebrate not just his death but his resurrection, in this spring season called Easter. It’s a time when we rejoice in knowing our redeemer lives because it means we have access to that same life – resurrection life.

As Jesus said to his friend, Mary, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?” (John 11:25,26). 

Mary said yes. Have you? 

As writers of faith this is essential. We cannot produce the fruit of resurrection in our lives and through our work, unless we believe and hold onto the One who was raised. When we stand on Easter Sunday morning and shout, in confidence and boldness of faith, “He is risen!” may it resound in our hearts with joy and absolute truth.

*****

Marcia Lee Laycock writes from central Alberta Canada where she is a pastor's wife and mother of three adult daughters. She was the winner of The Best New Canadian Christian Author Award for her novel, One Smooth Stone. Her second novel, A Tumbled Stone was recently short listed in the contemporary fiction category of The Word Awards. Marcia also has two devotional books in print. Her work has been endorsed by Sigmund Brouwer, Janette Oke, Phil Callaway and Mark Buchanan. Abundant Rain, an ebook devotional for writers can be downloaded here. Visit Marcia’s Website

 

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A Writer’s Easter

Marcia Laycock writes from central Alberta Canada. She is the recipient of The Best New Canadian Christian Author Award and her devotionals have been widely published. See more of her work on her website - www.vinemarc.com

All over the world this week writers have been sitting at their computers, staring at a blank monitor or the empty pages in a notebook as they contemplate and struggle to articulate what Easter means. I am one of those writers.

There are many things I know about Easter. I know it is the most important celebration in the Christian calendar. I know without Easter there is no effectual Christianity. I know about the cross, that torturous mode of execution that has become a universal symbol of hope. And I know about the tomb. I’ve stood inside one, in Jerusalem, and stared at the rough ledge where they believe our Saviour might have lain, wrapped in grave cloths, waiting for the third day.

But I’m a writer. I want to know more about this drama. I want to get inside the characters’ heads. I want to feel Mary’s pain and confusion, or perhaps peace, when they arrested her son and dragged him away. I want to know Peter’s horror and self-loathing when he ran from the courtyard after denying he knew his friend, his saviour, his God. I want to know his catharsis when he answered the same question three times. “Peter, do you love me?”

I want to know how Joseph of Arimathea summoned the courage to openly admit his allegiance to the Christ and petition for his body. I want to know the bloom of understanding when Jesus appeared in the midst of his trembling disciples and said, “Peace, my peace I give to you.” I want to know the depth of that profound comprehension when Thomas touched the wound that killed his Messiah and when the two disciples on the road to Emmaus watched him break the bread before their eyes.

And above all, I want to know the main character in the drama of Easter. I want to know that Messiah. I want to look into his face and know the depth of his knowledge of me and the incomparable love that made him drag himself to that cross as though it were his only source of life. Because He is my only source of life.

I am a writer. I am a believer in this Saviour, Jesus Christ. I count it a privilege to engage in this struggle to understand, to know more and more and more about this drama and all that it means. I count it a blessing that there is no end to the understanding of it, as there is no end to the magnificence of God. I am humbled to my core when I contemplate the gift he has given me as I am obedient to the call and struggle to articulate the story.

I pray that for all of us this Easter, that need to know drives us to our knees, drives us to His word and drives us to a deeper understanding of the meaning of the words “He is Risen. He is risen indeed.”

Glory. Glory Hallelujah.

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Guest Blogger Allie Pleiter - Don't Try This at Home!

An avid knitter, coffee junkie, and devoted chocoholic, Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and non-fiction. The enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, Allie spends her days writing books, doing laundry, running carpools, and finding new ways to avoid housework. She grew up in Connecticut, holds a BS in Speech from Northwestern University, spent fifteen years in the field of professional fundraising, and currently lives in suburban Chicago, Illinois. The “dare from a friend” to begin writing nine years ago has given rise to a career spanning two parenting books, eight novels including the multi-nominated My So-Called Love Life, and various national speaking engagements on faith, women’s issues, and writing. Visit her website or her knitting blog.

Don’t try this at home....

...Unless you want your life upended. And you’ve hidden all the chocolate. And you’ve warned those you love.

Now, I will be the first person to admit that my life may indeed be particularly complicated at the moment. I have two teenagers, one with some medical challenges, one in the throws of the college application/decision process. I’m chairing too many committees, and I’m working on a deadline (when aren’t I??). I do think of myself as a pretty even-keeled gal, someone who can roll with punches.

I have always given up something for Lent, even after my husband and I joined the Presbyterian Church. I have always felt that removing something from life can give it a new focus. Many times that practice has taken an usual turn--nothing simple like giving up coffee (NOT a chance--I’d never survive!), something less tangible.

This Lenten season, God asked me to give up control.

Whoa.

I am a first-class control freak. I have a multi-level computerized to-do list and I am one of the most task-oriented people you’ll ever meet. Frankly, I don’t do releases of control.

The more I explored it, however, the more sense it made. God wasn’t asking me to give up my skills or my effort, just my ownership of the results. It sounded one-half terrifying, one-half liberating. Most of life’s really good things are a combo of those, don’t you think?

So I, Allie Pleiter, control queen, surrendered control for Lent. Of course the wiser of you already know that I never really had control in the first place, but grant a gal her comforting illusions. So far, it’s worked. I’m not saying the world didn’t hand me some monstrous challenges in the control-reinquishing department, but I’ve managed to give control over to God every time I was tempted to snatch it back into my puny little hands.

So is it any coincidence that my March novella, Bluegrass Easter is about a control-happy knitting librarian who is coping with a surprise population explosion on her sheep farm? I don’t think so. The lessons of this book are the lessons of Easter, which is the ultimate control truth: God is, has always been, and always will be in control.

Even when things look downright disastrous.

BLUEGRASS EASTER

STEEPLE HILL NOVELLA “EASTER BLESSINGS”

ISBN# 978-0-373-87584-9

MARCH 2010

A “veterinarian on sabbatical,” widowed Paul Sycamore is not interested in answering his new neighbor’s constant questions about her expectant sheep. But the comfort his child finds on Audrey Lupine’s Middleburg, Kentucky, farm just may open his heart.

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In The Midst of Darkness

The day I went to the garden tomb in Jerusalem was grey, with a fine drizzle of rain that made me shiver. There weren’t many people about, so the garden had a lovely stillness about it, a sombre atmosphere that kept me from speaking. A young man sat alone amongst rows of benches. He was hunched over, praying. Our tour guide spoke in a hushed tone. As we stepped down toward the tomb our feet made soft scraping sounds on the limestone. I glanced back toward the spot where some believe Jesus was crucified, then stepped through the opening in the rock.

It was much smaller than I had envisioned it, the low ledge where his body would have laid, a narrow gouge in the rough-hewn stone. I shuffled forward with the others, then moved slowly back toward the opening. I touched the edge of the rock as I stepped over the lip of the entrance and heard a soft voice behind me say, “It’s empty.” As I stepped outside, beams of sunlight were streaming through the trees. The rain had passed.

I remembered those images as a small phrase in the first verse of John 20 struck me. It’s a phrase I hadn’t noticed before, a simple description of the time of day. But the image of that garden, of the greyness of the day and that beam of light made it suddenly have meaning. The phrase – “while it was still dark.”

The unfathomable mercy of Christ suddenly overwhelmed me. For it was into the darkness of this world that God sent His Son, it was in the midst of the ugliness and cruelty that he lived, it was while surrounded by His enemies and those who had betrayed Him that He died.

While it was still dark. “While we were still sinners…” (Rom. 5:8) He loved us enough to endure the torture and humiliation of the cross. “for the joy set before Him…” (Heb.12:2). He knew the darkness would not last. Light would stream through that garden and He would be its source.

While it was still dark, Jesus rose. And now, in the midst of the darkness of our world, we are able to shout Hallelujah! May the hope of Easter take root in your heart.

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