They called you a carpenter

They called You a carpenter, as if that title stripped You of majesty.

As if hands that held hammers could not also hold galaxies. As if sawdust on Your robe somehow lessened the glory of the heavens wrapped in Your frame.

But I see it now—

I see the holiness in the mundane, the sacred in the splinters. You, who carved out the oceans with a whisper, chose to carve wood with human hands. Hands calloused with labor. Hands that bore both nails and nails.

You knew the weight of work—the ache in the shoulders, the sweat on the brow.

You knew the silence of long days and the loneliness of being overlooked.

You chose humility over recognition. Simplicity over spectacle.

And in doing so, You dignified the overlooked places.

You baptized obscurity with purpose.

I wonder—did You build cradles for babies You already knew by name?

Did You mend chairs for the weary and poor?

Did Your fingertips trace the edges of each table You made, knowing one day You’d sit at a table the night You’d be betrayed?

Or stretch out Your arms on another piece of wood—the final work of the Carpenter?

And now, here I am.

Undone. Unfinished.

Rough around the edges, splintered with doubt and scarred by sin.

But You kneel beside the mess of my life with a steady hand and eternal patience.

Piece by piece,

cutting away what doesn’t belong,

shaping what I cannot fix,

sanding down the pride,

driving truth deep like nails into the frame of who I am becoming.

I confess—I resist the chisel. I flinch beneath the weight of the hammer.

But I trust You.

Because the Carpenter who made tables also made tombs tremble.

And if You’re building me,

then even this—this mess, this ache, this wilderness—

is not wasted.

So build me, Jesus.

Not into something impressive,

but into something holy.

Make me a resting place for Your glory,

a vessel of hospitality for the hurting,

a table for communion,

a life that bears witness to the Gospel.

Let the rhythm of Your hands shape me until I resemble You. Until the world no longer sees a project in progress, but a reflection of the King.