The Awl on the Altar

 The neighborhood children were at it again.  Every so often he'd look up and see a head, or sometimes two or three at once, pop up above the window ledge, trying desperately to peek at him, at what he was doing inside the house.  He grinned to himself.  Stealthily, he crept to the windows and flung them opened  bellowing jovially, "What do you children want?"

They screeched and screamed and then laughed at themselves.    Some ran away.  Others asked, "What are you doing in there Mr. Carpenter?"

They all called him "Mr. Carpenter" but it wasn't his real name.  Sometimes he tried to forget his real name, so 'Mr. Carpenter' was fine with him especially since that was what he had become since immigrating to Canada.  Carpentry was a handy trade to be in.

To answer the children's question he  said he'd  be right out in a minute.  Going to his kitchen, he  found a bunch of cookies he'd baked earlier in the day for just such "emergencies," put them on a plate nd marched outside to visit with the kids.

"Oh, Mr. Carpener, yum, yum!  Your chocolate chip cookies are soooooooooooooo delicious!  Thanks!" they chorused.

Having dealt out the cookies, he sat on his front steps and chattered with them, "You're welcome.  So you want to know what I'm doing?  Well, I'm making a model of a house I want to build.  It's like the one I want to construct for a poor family in Crow's Harbor.  Their house burnt down two weeks ago and they have no money to rebuild.  They're homeless and there are children about your ages.  How old are you boys and girls?"

"10."

"9."

"8."

"8."

"9,"  they answered in turn.

"Yup, that'd be about right then," he said.  "How would you like it if all you owned suddenly got burned up?"

"Not good," one young chap declared, "not good at all."

"Can we see the model," one of them asked.

"Yeah, yeah, we want to see it." they pled.

"OK, but when it's done." Mr. Carpenter cautioned.  "Do you know where the family is living right now?"

"On the street?  You said they were homeless," a bright lass ventured.

"Nope, guess again."

"At a homeless center?" another tried.

"Nope.  They are staying in a church basement for now.  It'll take a while before we can start to build the house but when we do, it'll take three or four days.  Very fast because many volunteers work together to make it happen."

"Can we help?" the eager beaver children asked.

"Let  me think  about it.  You'd have to ask your parents' permission.  Maybe you could make sandwiches or drinks for the builders.  I can't pay for any of it though and it might be  better if you all earned the money or used your allowance money to buy the groceries to make them.  BUT, you NEED to ask your parents first!  If they want to know more, they can talk to me."

"My Dad is big and strong, I bet he could help you build!" one boy strutted, so proud of is Dad.

"Sure, why not.  The more muscle power the better  but he'll have to register.  He can talk to me too if he's interested."  Mr. Carpenter explained.

The children loved to talk with Mr. Carpenter because he took time out to talk to them and because of his accent when he spoke.  They once asked him why he talked funny and he'd said he'd come from a land far, far away where most people didn't speak English very much.  He'd learned from an American tutor but he did still have some trouble speaking and understanding.

Most of the kids thought it was cool and even pretended to be Mr. Carpenter, mimicking the way he talked when they got home.  Their parents were amused.

Some of  the parents had come to check Mr.  Carpenter out.  Was he a 'safe' person for their children to hang out with?  They concluded he was quite like a harmless teddy bear, so they relaxed  but did keep some watchful eyes from time to time.

They got to enjoy talking with him too and found out that his real name was Andrei Zamfir and he'd come from Romania - had escaped from there actually, during the communist time.  They mostly forgot about that though and even took to calling him Mr. Carpenter as their children did.  Andrei thought that kind of funny but accepted it.  It helped him to forget or try to, the heartache that was a constant burning within him.

He was from a royal family, a second cousin but enough 'blue' blood, that certain elements wished to exterminate all such connections. His dear Ioana and their daughter Priscila, caught, tortured, beaten and starved just because he was partly royal.  He kicked and cursed himself for not acting sooner.  His tortured mind circled round and round, the "should have's" and the "if he'd only had's".

He'd had the money which the communists were also after.  Money he could have bought escape, sooner.  By the time he'd gotten home from work that day, his wife and daughter had already be snatched away and their home pilfered.  Thankfully their neighbor saw him coming and had stopped him half way up the street to report what had happened.  Some of the officers were laying in wait for him inside.

He'd turned away - now homeless.

He'd had a job of it to hide and to find out where his family had gotten taken to.  Some said they were being held for ransom.  They want your money and to humble you.  He was right ready to give himself and his money up, then learned they'd been lumped in with the Jews and forced to concentration camps during a pogram that was simaltaneously on-going.

Next he'd heard  they'd been gunned down by a trigger happy comrade.  It was true.  Tears flowed still.  When the scenario recycled and played out in his mind and imagination he wept afresh.  Mindful of the peeping tom children he'd seek solace in his bedroom making sure the window shades were firmly and completely  down.

Andrei supposed that's partly why he took to building homes and was kind to children; a kind of therapy to help his gaping, aching heart overcome the ache that followed in his wake and never really leaving him.

He had sought asylum in Canada and was so granted.  He was pretty bitter against God though.  How could He do this to him!  In time, a caring pastor, and other church people who'd 'adopted' and sponsored him, loved him back to the Lord.  He still remembered the later sermon about giving your all.  They'd sung, "put your all on the altar".

He found this really funny to think  about now, he'd thought they had said, "Awl.  Sacrifice and put your awl on the altar."  He chuckled about those early days now.  That was when some of the idioms and  words could still be confusing - 'awl' - or was that 'all'.  What was he supposed to think - he was into carpentry now so of course the 'all' would be 'awl' - alright!?

The pastor was rather startled the day Andrei had come to the church and placed his awl on the  church altar.  Pastor Paul had heard someone come into the sanctuary so had come out of his office to investigate.  Andrei had just turned from the altar to leave and Paul had seen the awl lying there.  He called out to Andrei, "Hey brother, what is this?"

"Huh, Pastor dosesn't know what an awl is?" 

He clomped back to the altar, "Oh, that's an awl, pastor, a carpenter's tool for boring holes, or sometimes cobblers use them in shoe making."

"Yes, I know," grinned Pastor  Paul, "but why have you put it here?"

"Well, pastor, that's becasue I've surrendered my will to the Lord and told Him I'd put my awl on the altar for Him to use.  Don't you remember on Sunday?  Your sermon...then we sang "put your awl on the altar?"

The pastor realized the language misunderstanding blooper and couldn't help himself, he just HAD to laugh.  It was funny, yes, but he was so delighted that one of the congregants had actually been listening - truly listening - all the way from their ears to their heart!  He corraled Mr. Carpenter to his office.

"Mr. Carpenter, is it ok to call  you that, he'd  asked.

"Yes, of course, I realize Zamfir  seems to be more difficult to say in this country"  Andrei had said, sportingly.

"Let  me explain further, Mr. Carpenter," pastor continued, "first, there is a language problem.  The 'awl' is actually 'all'.  Here, let me spell it out on my whiteboard.  See, A - L - L means, everything,  our possessions, money, ourselves.  In some ways "A -W- L' is your everything even though it is a tool.  If you leave your awl on that table what will it accomplish?  You are the one who is the master craftsman carpenter.  May I suggest something, brother?"

Andrei remembered being a bit embarassed at his mistake but could see the humor in it.  He laughed and asked Pastor Paul to "shoot".  That was a lovely word of slang he'd recently heard the children use and added it to his vocab repretoire.

"I'm really feeling so very heart happy with your awl on the altar because I feel the sincerity of your heart Andrei.  You want to give yourself to the Lord and to other people.  Am I correct?" Pastor Paul asked.

"Yes, pastor.  What do you suggest then?"

"Have you ever heard of Habitat For Humanity?"

Andrei pondered a moment, stroking his whiskery jaw with his fingers, "No, I don't believe I  have."

"Well," Pastor Paul explained, "They look for dedicated volunteers to build homes for the poor and needy.  It would be good to pick up your awl and walk.  You could do such a ministry in this country.  Try it out and see how it goes.  Sometimes groups even go to other countries and maybe build an orphanage or other such places of need.  We could look into this together and see what happens.  What do you say, Mr. Carpenter?"

"I say, YES!" and with that he'd gone out to the altar and prayed,

"Father, my heart is desiring to work for You and to help the poor and needy.  I once was homeless and know Your Son Jesus, also of princely royal blood, was once homeless too.  He  was also a carpenter and I know He's  in the business of building His  church.  I'd  like  to lend a hand.

See, here is my awl on the altar.  You can have it and all of me too.  Take me.  Use me for Your glory and honor.

Pastor  Paul just told me about the NGO that builds for others in need.  I'd like to do that with Your help, of course.  I dedicate myself to the work, 'awl' of it, ha, ha, along with my hammer and saw and so on.  Just know, Father, that when You see my awl in my hand, it is on Your altar.

In Jesus' Name, Amen."

Pastor Paul had come quietly and stood beside him and added softly, "Amen.  Praise the Lord." then turned to Andrei, "Let's get together again in a few days to discuss  further.  I know a guy already involved so he can help us.  I'll get back to you real soon."

"OK, it's a plan.  See ya around, pastor."  He'd walked out of the church with bounces of joy in every step.  Something that he hadn't felt in so many years since his dear ones had left him.  Bittersweetness.

He still felt the joy so many years  later, and was so grateful to the Lord for the direction and path Pastor Paul had set him on.  He couldn't help but to splash that joy about.  It was rather infectious and the neighbor kids caught it, and little did Mr. Carpenter know, they brought some back into their own homes, all  because Mr. Carpenter's awl was on the altar.

So Andrei didn't really mind the children spying on him.  He welcomed them.  Some  of them even came to Sunday School now and one or two of the parents had dared darken the doors of the church.  Some others had volunteered themselves to the house building over the many years.  He waited for others.

One thing though, he'd scrimp and save and plan ahead to the time he could build back in Romania.  He'd bide his time, pray for his country and its people.  The time will be right to use his awl there one of these days he believed.

In the meantime, he'd better stop  day-dreaming and get back at his model making.  The children are going to want to see the finished product soon.  They will be even more thrilled when  they find out, not only is there a full-sized home planned for the Crow's Harbor family, but that this model is to also be a small replica of one that is to be a playhouse for these neighborhood children to help build and play in.

Uh-oh, he was grinning again.

                                                      ~ERC  November 2021~

Sing, Is Your Awl On the Altar, along with Living Streams Hymns.