The Sculptor's Workshop: Learning to Trust the Master Craftsman Read online

The Sculptor’s Workshop

  The Sculptor’s Workshop

  Learning to Trust the Master Craftsman

  P W C Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Lynn Ellen Wolf

  4315 N Commerce Drive

  Suite 440-248

  Lafayette, IN 47905

  [email protected]

  Published in the United States of America

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks be to God who has the power to make all hearts perfect by His perfect love.

  Thanks, also, to my father who taught me to have faith as of a child.

  The Sculptor’s Hearts

  In a town not too far from your town, a village lies in a valley in the shadow of a hill. On the hill stands a sculptor’s workshop, and his only desire is to create perfect hearts. In the window, his collection of perfect hearts shines in the light and warmth of the sun, and the sculptor tends to them with loving care. He puts them each in the perfect position to get the most light, and he keeps the dust away by passing them through his caring hands and his softest cleaning cloth every day.

  One day the bell over the workshop door jingled, and a young girl stood in the doorway. The sculptor opened his arms and smiled.

  “Can I help you?”

  The girl shrank away and almost left, but she took a deep breath and walked in. “When you opened your workshop, you promised that you could make a perfect heart for anyone who trusted you.”

  “Yes. Do you trust me?”

  “I think so.” She bit her lip. “Yes, I do.” She reached into her pocket and held out a gray, muddy lump of clay. “I tried to make it look good, but it’s not. No matter what I do, it’s just not going to be perfect. If I give it to you, would you help me?”

  “I’d love to.” The sculptor waved her to himself and held out his hand.

  “What does it cost?”

  “Child, I cover all the expenses. The only thing it costs you is your heart, and I promise to take the best care of that, always.”

  The girl hesitated but saw the kindness in the sculptor’s eyes and placed the clay in his hand with a confident smile. “I do trust you. Thank you.”

  The sculptor cradled the crude clay heart in his hands. “The more you trust me, the easier it will be to make this heart perfect.”

  The girl gave him a hug and stood at the door. “Oh, I trust you with all my heart. Get it? All my heart?” She giggled and ran down the hill singing a happy song.

  The sculptor placed the clay on his worktable and covered it with a wet cloth. “You just sit here and soften up a little bit. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  The clay slouched on the table underneath the cold rag. It shivered and looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings. To her right, an old log hid behind an easel, and a block of marble stood proudly on a sculpting platform right across from him. A misshapen ceramic jar stood on a high shelf, looking down on all the other pieces.

  The log peeked out. Its bark was dry and cracked, and some spots were brittle with dry rot. “You ought to hide, like I’m doing.”

  The clay examined the log, and she could tell by the rough heart-shaped outline carved into one end that the sculptor had begun work on the wood already. “Why should I hide? What happened to your heart?”

  The log crawled back behind the easel. “I’ll tell you; it’s going to hurt. The sculptor uses really sharp tools, and cuts really deep. I’m safe because of my imperfections. He leaves me alone now. He’ll never dig his knives into me again. Hide, I’m telling you.”

  “I’m his now, though. I can trust him. I’m sure that if it hurts, it won’t hurt for long. I just want to be one of his perfect hearts.”

  The sculptor came into the room and checked the cloth on the clay. He picked up a spray bottle and added more water to the cloth then kneaded the clay a couple of times to keep the moisture even all the way through. The clay groaned, but didn’t fight against the sculptor’s confident hands.

  “You are beautiful,” the sculptor said to the clay. “When I’m done you will be so much more beautiful.”

  The clay complied without complaint. She suffered through tremendous pressures as the sculptor molded and smoothed the clay until a perfect heart lay in the sculptor’s hands.

  “We’re almost there. You’ve been through a lot, and it’s time to rest. Once you’ve dried, we’ll go through the final process. Don’t be afraid.” He patted the heart. “I’m always here.”

  The sculptor left the clay heart on a shelf to dry then picked up the log from the shadows behind the easel. “Ah! There you are!” He examined the rot and splinters. “Oh dear, it’s too late. If you would have stayed where I put you, we’d be done already. Now you’re no good for anything except kindling.”

  The sculptor shook his head sadly and lifted his hatchet from the tool bench. “We started out together, but you left, and there is no place for you here.” He raised the hatchet and cut the log into kindling and put it into the furnace. Once the firing oven glowed red-hot, the sculptor sighed and left the room.

  “He doesn’t really care about us, you know.”

  The clay looked up to see the jar staring down at him. “You mean the sculptor? Of course he does. He only wants us to be perfect, right? He has to know what he’s doing.”

  “You’ll end up like me, you know.”

  The clay took a good look at the jar. She would have been beautiful, perfect even, except for the part that drooped on one side. “What happened to you?”

  “I put up with his squeezing and molding, and I just got tired of going through it. I’m not going to trust someone who does nothing but swirl me around, pinching and pulling. When he put me in the kiln, that was it. Once he walked away, I decided I wasn’t going to stand still and just take it anymore. The fire, though, it hardened me, and now I’m scarred for life. I’m telling you, he really doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “Can’t he fix you?”

  “I’ve already been through the fire, you know. Even the sculptor can’t re-make me. I’ll sit right here on this shelf just to remind him that he’s not perfect.”

  “But you’re the one who didn’t trust him. I only hope that when my time comes I’ll stand firm in the fire.” The clay thought about the way the sculptor shredded the log into kindling, and looked back at the jar, finished, but malformed. She remained still, trusting the sculptor and his caring hands to guide her, even through the fire if that’s where she had to go.

  The sculptor came back in and checked the clay. “You’re coming along very well. It won’t be much longer now.” He reached up and took the jar from the shelf. He turned it over in his hands, and let out a sad sigh. He placed the jar under a dusty rag and crushed it with a hammer.

  “It’s sad that you decided to cave under pressure.” He tossed the tiny shards into a recycling bucket by the door. “You could have had a place of honor in my house.”
/>
  He cleaned up the ceramic dust, shook out the rag, and looked at his watch. “Lunch time. I’ll finish you all up in a bit.” He tucked the rag into his back pocket and left the room.

  “He makes mistakes,” the marble said.

  “But he promised.” The clay closed her eyes and focused on those words.

  “Yeah, he promises, but look at me. I was a fine block of marble until he got his chisels on me. His promise didn’t work. He makes mistakes.”

  The clay took a long look at the marble. The top half was carved into a partial heart, nearly perfect except for a crack in the ‘v’ shape between the two tall curves. “What happened there?”

  “To be honest, I shifted and shied away from his chisel. I didn’t think he was doing it right, and I guess I was too hard-headed. Maybe next time, if there is a next time, I’ll be more open to what he wants to do.”

  “I think the sculptor doesn’t give up on us. From what I’ve seen, though, some of us may give up on him. Tell you what. Let’s do what he wants and see what happens.”

  The marble agreed. “I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll trust him with whatever I’ve got left.”

  The clay wasn’t shivering anymore, and the sculptor came back and picked her up. “Nice and dry; time to get you ready for the kiln.”

  Two coats of glaze later, the clay felt heavy and hollow, and tired from all she’d been through. The sculptor stoked the fire, and satisfied that it was hot enough, he placed the clay heart on a wooden paddle and set her deep inside the oven. “This is your last step. Just hold tight, and after this, all your worries will be over, and I can care for you forever.” He shut the oven door and turned to the block of marble.

  “Now, my friend, shall we try again?” The sculptor gathered his chisels and hammer and examined the marble carefully. He made one swift, heavy stroke on the cracked part, and the unfinished heart broke away. The sculptor ran a gentle hand over the surface of the marble, now smaller than before, but more willing to be carved into shape. “You can be re-chiseled. A little smaller but no less perfect.” The hammer and chisel rose again, and the marble continued to comply with the sculptor’s strokes, and soon a perfect heart took shape beneath the sculptor’s tools. The marble shone with love and gratitude. The sculptor polished it until it practically glowed then placed it in his front window with all his other beloved, perfect hearts.

  The fire in the kiln died down, and the sculptor removed the heart from the furnace. He smiled at his own reflection in the deep, lustrous glaze, and placed the strong, perfect, much-loved heart in his bright window next to the perfect marble heart.

  The shiny, new, ceramic heart looked down at his smaller but absolutely perfect marble friend. “I’m glad you made it.”

  “I didn’t do anything but trust the sculptor’s skill. He made me what I am.”

  The sculptor made many more hearts. Some trusted him and ended up in the brightly-lit window with the others enjoying the sculptor’s care and love, and shining in the light of the sun. Some, though, rejected the sculptor’s love and desire to make them perfect. They ended up broken, alone, and rejected, with no hope of ever knowing the sculptor’s love again.

  When he finally closed his shop and retired, all those who trusted him with their hearts came and honored the sculptor who lived out his days surrounded by those who loved and trusted him, and he watched over them forever.

  The End

  Coming Soon From Lynn Ellen Wolf:

  Little Joe: Easy Pleasin’

  Little Joe: In A Minute

  Hope Abides

  Still Not Perfect: A Journey Toward Grace

  About the Author

  Lynn Ellen Wolf writes inspirational stories and poetry, always keeping a look out for God’s extraordinary work in our ordinary lives. She lives in Indiana with her family.

  Pray Without Ceasing