I recently added a new table to the WCLN studios. Nothing fancy. It’s made from rough, flawed walnut boards I picked up somewhere along the way. I left many of the imperfections untouched and finished it with raw steel hairpin legs—a quiet nod to my oldest son, an artist whose medium was metal before he passed not long ago. Seeing that table each day has caused me to think again about what craftsmanship really means to me.
Like a lot of people I know, life stays busy. My calendar would be packed with every kind of gathering if I let it. I’ve even learned not to act too surprised when I’m reminded of a birthday, anniversary, recital, or event I should have remembered—that’s become something of an art form. And as much as my wife and I can, we show up. But I’ve also learned the value of stepping away.
For me, retreat doesn’t usually mean the beach or the North Carolina mountains. More often, it’s a short walk to the workshop behind our house, with the dog tagging along.
In that quiet space, away from the noise of daily life, I make things. Sometimes it’s silent except for my thoughts; other times I turn the music up just to quiet them down. I work with different materials, but wood is my favorite. Most of what I use would be considered scraps—leftovers from other places that saw no value in them. Exotic hardwoods, common lumber, small pieces others discard. To them, it’s waste. To me, it’s treasure.
Woodworking has become more than a hobby—it’s a reflection of the life I’ve been given. I’ll take on a project now and then, but I rarely sell what I make. Selling changes something. This, for me, is about recognizing the beauty and usefulness in each piece—no matter the size—and beginning the careful work of preserving it, preparing it, and giving it a new purpose. In a word, it’s redemption.
Without the grace and redemption I found in Jesus Christ, my life would be nothing. There was a time I might have been considered a castoff, but when Jesus found me, He saw something worth shaping. Since 1981, He’s been doing just that—preserving, refining, repurposing. And even in seasons when I feel like I have little to offer, He reminds me there is still purpose. Not just for me—for every life.
It’s hard to put all of that into words when I hand someone a simple piece made from reclaimed wood. But to me, it’s never just an object. It represents time, attention, and care. Every piece carries its flaws. Every piece is one of a kind. Just like you.