Sculpted with Love

My childhood hometown had a dime store called Ben Franklins.  It was located on the square of shops circling the courthouse on a one-way street.  No out-of-towner could maneuver a drive around the square without stopping in the middle of the road in order to try and figure out who had the right-of-way.  Come to think about it, it was much like a British roundabout except it had an old building in the middle of it.  

The dime store was a little less than a mile from my home.  When I had a dime, I’d head to the end of the block.  Then the walk up Grand Street would follow through the intersection where Dad owned a gas station.  Next, I would pass Anderson Grammar School where I attended, a few blocks of old houses, and then a couple more gas stations including the one where I sometimes skipped church.  I believed my parents did not know about this until they revealed to me that they were more omniscient than I suspected.  That was the last of candy bars and soft drinks during church time.    

After that, I’d immediately pass Brownsville Baptist Church with its tall columns and numerous steps which climbed up to three pairs of doors on the other side of which I later served as usher on Sunday nights.  This stroll was all uphill with a clear and continuous view of the courthouse which looked like some Greek temple all lite up and glowing in the western sun.  Ben Franklins was across the street to the right, right near the Economy Store where one Christmas I bought my Mom the painting of fruit, vase, and flowers adorned with bread on a linin cloth that now hangs in our dinning room.  

When I entered the store, I’d head down an isle to the left to where the toy cars and trucks could be found in bins.  I’d make my selection and head back home.  Dad had left a mound of dirt on the strip of land behind our house; and I turned that hill into a mountain community with roads graded level using the end of an old garden hoe for a bulldozer. 

I enjoyed playing by myself in my yard.  I’d perfected a way to catch my own passes with the little white rubber football I’d caught at halftime at one of Haywood High Tomcat’s games.  I’d toss it high enough into the air and close enough so I could run under it and catch it.  I was creative enough to adjust the rules of the game for a single player who did double duty by playing for both teams.  I’d nailed planks between limbs on the giant oak tree in my back yard where I could sit in solitude and survey the neighborhood.  I would ride my bike in narrow circles for an hour at the time on the concrete driveway Dad had smoothed out between forms he had built himself.  

Such memories are special to me now.  They draw out of me a call to offer thanks for the long memory of God’s blessings.  And perhaps most of all, now that I can look back with as perfect a view of things as a faulty memory will allow, I am grateful that God could see with a certain and perfect clarity in this direction from the beginning.  Somehow it all existed in His memory long before it ever happened at all.  

God built into my character the very traits I need today to flourish in the life he has given me so far: confidence to trust the people who live in my community, willingness to accept correction when at fault, creativity to use the resources I have, familiarity with church as a place to serve, comfort with solitude to know His presence, contentment with simple pleasures, and family.  Your childhood experience may be different.  Nevertheless, it is God’s gift to you for the purpose of maturing you into the beautiful person you are.  God is an artist and in his eyes, every creation is a masterpiece sculpted with love. 

“Your eyes saw me when I was formless; all my days were written in your book and planned before a single one of them began. God, how precious your thoughts are to me; how vast their sum is!” (Psalm 139:16-17 CSB)

Stephen Williams

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