A Feeding Trough
The old man, a carpenter by trade, wearing denim overalls that had seen paints of various colors, looked at the product of wood and nails. He chewed on a bit of tobacco while resting his thick hands on his workbench.
"It's a feeding trough," he responded. "Nothing special about a feeding trough."
"Don't you see? The wood is perfect."
"That's the wood your father wanted me to use. Said he got those pieces of timber from some old barn next town over. Some of the boards were beyond use, rotted. Did what I could."
"It's perfect," she exclaimed a second time.
"For feeding animals, yes. There is no beauty in rough lumber that will do nothing more than hold feed for sheep and donkeys."
The young woman walked over to the trough and placed her hand on the wood. It was rough, just as the carpenter said, just as her father wanted.
"My father will be pleased when he sees this fine workmanship. He'll come by and pick it up later today. He's working right now."
"Make sure it's before seven," the carpenter replied, "I close my shop promptly at seven."
"I'm sure he will be here before seven... and he will be pleased with the product."
The young woman walked down the short drive from the carpenter's workshop. A stiff December breeze caught her unzipped leather coat. She clutched it around her body and climbed onto a motorcycle parked at the curb. She zipped the jacket, put her helmet in place, kick started the machine before driving off. She gave a wave without looking. In her wake, the carpenter strolled back through his shop and stopped by the feeding trough. He ran a calloused hand over the rough wood.
"It's just a feeding trough," he said to himself. "Nothing special about a feeding trough."
~
Two hours later a light blue Chevy pickup pulled into the yard. There was rust on the back quarter panels, slowly turning to rot. The front bumper was dented. The carpenter stepped out of his shop. He was expecting the customer. Bill Jones was here to pick up the wooden trough.
"This old thing still runnin'," the carpenter said.
"No reason to get rid of it."
"Engine still purrs," the carpenter added in agreement.
"Sometimes old is good. Speaking of which, my daughter said the feeding trough is ready. She added 'perfect' as well."
The carpenter spit out his chewing tobacco into an old coffee can on his workbench. He took another long look at the rough wood he had fashioned into a vessel for feeding animals.
"Tell me somethin', the carpenter said, "Why would that young woman think this is beautiful?"
"You mean my daughter?"
"The young woman on the motorcycle," The carpenter responded.
"I guess... the best way to explain her reaction is to say she knows what its future brings."
"You talkin' all religious on me now, Bill?"
"Christmas. Some people... a lot of people... tie Christmas to material things. Me, and mine tie this beautiful holiday to faith."
"Ain't been down that road in a while," the carpenter said. "Not since Lily."
"I understand, George, truly. This season is hard on many. I can't begin to say that I can relate to what you've gone through."
"Lily was sick a long time before she passed. You know, the only reason I went into that church was for my Lily. She was the one with faith. I've always been the one with doubts. I just wanted to please her. Reverend Howell, he was a good man. I heard he retired a year ago."
"You'd like the new reverend. He's young. My daughter seems to like him... a lot."
"What'd you mean by that?"
"I might have a son-in-law who is a minister someday soon."
"He okay with her bike ridin'?"
"He rides as well. Maybe you should come, George. If not this weekend, maybe Christmas Eve. You'll see your feeding trough put to the best possible use. Love came down, you know. Lily used to love the pageant."
"She worked with the kids," the carpenter admitted. "Never had any of our own. Lily was unable, don't know if you knew that. There was always a sadness in her. The kids at the church filled the void a tiny bit."
"Think about it," Bill Jones said. He knew he'd planted a seed, or maybe just fertilized a seed Lily planted a long time ago. Now, all he could do was pray that the seed had been planted in good soil.
"I'll think about it. Maybe I'll go for Lily."
"It's a start," Bill Jones said as he lifted the trough into the bed of his pickup. He chose to add one more thought. "If you come, Christmas Eve, I'll make sure we save you a seat."
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