Carpenter from Nazareth

What I think about most is not the miracles— the water, the wine, the dead man walking out still wearing his surprise. What I think about is the carpentry. A man who made tables. Who knew the weight of cedar, the grain's direction, the particular patience a joint requires before it holds. I think about his hands— the same hands that would later break bread for a thousand— first learning to break wood, to measure twice, to sand until the surface forgave the saw. He walked into rooms and the rooms changed shape. Not because of power. Because he listened with the attention of someone who has built things and knows that the smallest crack, left alone, becomes the place the whole structure fails. I don't know what I believe about the resurrection. But I believe in the carpentry. I believe in a god who learned a trade, who got sawdust in his eyes, who understood that the hardest thing to build is a table where everyone fits.