The Wood of the Cross

We returned from vacation late last night, and so it wasn't until this morning that we noticed that a portion of the fence between our back yard and the back yard of the neighbors behind us was hanging askew (perhaps blown over by the heat wave?). And it wasn't until this evening that we went out to fix it. Fortunately, Darwin could simply step over the fence into the neighbors' yard, because a) they're never home, and b) they're the sort of renters who don't really care what the place looks like. The posts of the fence are on our side, and the boards on theirs, so it was my job to brace while Darwin hammered.

I pushed against the post and grasped the tops of the boards, and I steeled myself (cringed, rather) at the thought of the rough wood vibrating under the blow of the hammer. Thank goodness, I thought, that none of my fingers were remotely in the path of the hammer. Then, of course, I thought of Christ laying on the cross, waiting for the first hammer blow. How many times did the hammer slip and hit his hand? And I found that if I held the fence firmly, with no trepidation, that the vibrations were lessened and the task was completed sooner.