Local Wood

I simply mentioned it.
I mentioned that I wanted to replace our living room tables.
I wanted something a bit more rustic.
I wanted a change.

A simple mention becomes a full blown project when my husband is within earshot.
I can make them for you, he said.
He can.
He has made me things in the past.

He made our long, country farm table in the kitchen.
He made the armoire that is in our family room.
He has made many things that I can easily point to in our home.
I know that he can make the tables for me.

My husband has been getting more tools for his workshop.
He had a wonderful workshop before, but he is adding more tools to make furniture.
He bought a planer and a jointer so he can work with rough wood.
His excitement over his new woodworking tools is like a boy on Christmas morning.

He told me that he found a local man who was selling rough cut wood.
They messaged back a forth a bit.
The man lived right near us and we never knew.
My husband went to his house this past weekend to look at the wood.

He came home delighted with the wood that he saw.
He came in the house to tell me that he was getting a tarp from the basement.
He went back to buy the wood so he can begin to make my tables.
When he returned, he was smiling ear to ear.

You’re going to love this, he said.
The wood is local wood.
It is from a 100-year-old walnut tree that fell down right on his property.
The wood for the tables will have a history all its own.

He was right.
I did love it.
The wood for my tables is 100-year-old local wood.
The wood will tell a story.

The wood tells the story, which Noah began,
Enclosed on the ark, shut in by God’s Hand.
It floated above the destruction below,
A dove, a branch, and a promise rainbow.

The wood tells the story, which Abraham began,
The wood for the fire; God provided the lamb,
The wood on the shoulders of his precious son,
The ram in the thicket, a substitute one.

The wood tells the story of doorposts with stain,
Splattered with blood of a lamb that was slain,
The blood that would save as death passed by,
The joy of salvation while others would cry.

The wood tells the story of the One it contains,
The small baby Jesus, the Christ is His Name.
The wood of the manger, the cow’s feeding trough,
The Creator flails helpless; the wood was so rough.

The wood tells the story; the hill Calvary,
The wood of the cross where He died there for me.
The wood on the shoulders of God’s only Son.
The Lamb in my place, the substitute One.

The wood tells the story of the cross with my name.
Nailed there my sin, my guilt, and my shame.
The wood holds my Savior; the wood meant for me.
My Lord laid His life down, so I could be free.

I wrote and published the poem, The Wood Tells The Story, in 2012.
The wood is found all throughout God’s Word.
The wood tells the story of salvation.
The wood on which hung my Savior is the wood that was meant for me.

The 100-year-old wood, that will soon become my tables, has a story.
The wood from Noah to Abraham, the wood from the manger to the cross, tells the Story.
The wood tells the Story of Salvation.
It is a Story we never tire of hearing; it is a Story we must tell others.