Beauty from ashes

When the pain and difficulties of the past translate into hope for the future

Once I finally tamed the terrifying fire into submission, successfully protecting the vulnerable hillside above it, I methodically burned the remains of the life we spent so many years building.

A little at a time.

Alone.

Because our life has centered for decades around woodworking, much of it was easily combustible.

Yes, as I concluded last week, I should have brought another person into the process. But in this case, the only other person was Andy—my husband—and I didn’t want to saddle him with the emotional weight of watching so much of his hard work literally go up in flames. All of it had memories attached.

This chocolatey walnut scrap was left over from one of his rocking chairs built for three, or maybe from the gorgeous windowsills he built for our bedroom.

Andy’s Storybook Rocker, a way to rock all the kids at once. He made several of these for clients over the years. This one is walnut.

Those short lengths of two by fours could be from way back when we built the shop or added on to the original two-bedroom house.

Part of the addition we built onto the original two bedroom, one bath house. This particular area became the new kitchen.

That strip of CVG fir was probably from the kitchen remodel. The cabinets turned out so nice.

The new kitchen turned out well. I did get to use it for a brief time in between other tenants and the new owners.

These pieces of white oak were likely off-cuts from that enormous dining room table he built for the demanding client down the valley.

This whole batch of African hardwoods I can no longer identify was saved for something special, but carpenter ants got into the carefully stacked pile. Now it’s rotted. Useless.

That pile of tulip poplar. So unique and bold. I remember the chair he made for me. He signed it on the bottom. It resides elsewhere now. I can’t burn the tulip poplar. There’s enough of it that someone will want it. Someone will make something beautiful of it.

The chair Andy built for me. The multi-colored back rest is made from one piece of tulip poplar.

A few thin strips of Western big leaf maple. Quilted. Once destined for a showy set of back slats. I remember how Andy would say the word chatoyance¹ with a hint of reverence for the shimmery beauty. I’ll set those aside, too.

Oh, look. Here are the templates for the back legs, the front legs, the arm rests.

There’s a roughed-out leg for a cherry chair that was never built. It’s probably his last leg, haha.

Andy’s last leg, headed for the burn pile. Oops, I held it upside down for this photo. That notch is where it would have connected to the seat of a chair. The thicker area at the bottom would have been where the headrest is attached.

Out behind the barn, behind the ugly storage trailer—there it is, the sign we made for our woodworking school, Chidwick School of Fine Woodworking. We created the logo—a simplistic line drawing of the front of our shop and a pine tree and the mountains, plus a saw blade and the lettering.

The shop we built in 2004-2005 on the left, and the barn my grandparents built and temporarily lived in in the mid 1970s

This was part of one of our websites at one point over the years. The .com site was sold to someone else, so don’t bother trying it.

Andy cut the sign from sturdy wood, carved out the design, added posts on either side, and installed it out at the end of the driveway for students to see when they first arrived for their classes. They all wanted to pose for photos with it before the end of their one or two-week session. For a decade now, it has been abandoned, out of sight, buried in the tall weeds part way up the hillside, broken and weather beaten.

I dragged the sign down to the fire. The weight of it was as heavy literally as figuratively. With a grunt and all my strength, I heaved it into the flames, face-up. I decided not to take a photo of it, preferring to remember it the way it was. I was glad Andy wasn’t there to watch the flames lick around it.

The fire was hot. It didn’t take long.

Chidwic chool of Fine Woodworki

We built so many dreams on this property with our hands and our hearts, with our literal blood, sweat, and tears. But now we’re pursuing something new.

Chatoyance

The thing with figured hardwoods is it’s impossible to accurately predict what you’re going to find inside when a tree is felled and milled into slabs. Quilt. Curl. Flame. Birdseye. Fiddleback. Straight grain. Even a burl, so obvious on the outside, is a surprise on the inside.

What is happening over the years to the inside of the tree, which stays hidden away until a sawyer exposes its secrets, is often caused by stress or injury. There may have been a fungus attack or an insect invasion. A seasonal abnormality in precipitation or temperature may have stunted or compressed the growth. A nail pounded into the tree or an injury from a damaging windstorm may cause the growth to go a little wonky as the tree grows scars around the wound. All of this can inadvertently cause immense beauty to emerge later, when the truth of what’s inside is all laid bare.

This was our car in 2003-2005. Wood paid our bills for a lot of years.

I wouldn’t wish pain or stress or hardship on any tree—or person—but what if the trauma experienced in the past holds the key to uncommon beauty in the future? What if, with the pain, there is hope for transformation?

Chidwi ool of Fine Woodwor

I examined each piece of wood before I put it in the fire. Odd-shaped scraps, end cuts of short grain, anything rotted or split went into the fire. Usable boards were saved.

I was alone with the memories. We struggled back then. We fought. We pivoted. We put all our eggs in one basket. We changed tactics, invested in several different baskets, and divvied the eggs up.

We promoted our woodworking school by having Andy work as a mainstage speaker at the traveling Woodworking Shows. His seminars were always very well-attended.

We skimped and went without. We said no to things when all our friends could say yes. We made up fun activities that cost no money. We rebranded boxes of second-hand clothes as fun surprises and yard sale finds as precious treasures.

Chidw ol of Fine Woodw

We prayed and pleaded and tried every possible door handle to see what might open. We laughed, too. We cried with joy when the folks from church gave us their old car. We learned to work harder and smarter. We pulled together. We pulled apart. We persevered.

Chi f Fine Woo

We can’t live in the past. It’s good to let go. And now, as we’re surrendering to the mill, allowing ourselves to be laid bare, we’re finding unexpected beauty shining through.

Andy and I are closer than ever. After years of wondering if we would actually be able to fulfill the long-reaching, starry-eyed vows we uttered in that candlelit church one Friday night in 1992, we are truly best friends again. We’ve been through so much. The scars run deep, but like fiddleback maple, the stress can actually cause rare beauty to emerge, beauty that could not have happened if our lives had always been easy. Beauty that adds great value.

C f Fine Wo

So, I watched it burn. And I remembered. I remembered the past, its hardships as well as its joys. I remembered the dreams we have ahead of us, the dreams already coming to fruition, the dreams that couldn’t have happened without the struggles, the beauty emerging from the scars.

Scars, after all, don’t hurt. They just mark the place where it used to hurt. But because of the scars, we never completely forget the pain. We remember to learn from the past. We remember that healing—at least at some level—will come in time. And in the laying open of the soul, immense beauty may be revealed.

I stared at all that was left of the big wooden sign that once pointed the way to our woodworking school. Yes. It was fine. Another plank in the burn pile collapsed with a burst of sparks and buried the rest of the sign, never to be seen again. It was fine, just fine, I smiled, all alone with the burn pile and the peaceful hillside covered with lupine and Arrowleaf balsamroot.

The back hill that used to be ours

It was fine, and we are moving on.

Diesel and Dignity

The rebranding of this bloggy-newslettery-Substacky thing is only three short weeks away. If you are just getting caught up, I wrote about it here, and here, and also here.

Here it is in a nutshell: Andy and I are taking off—hopefully in June—to wander the world as full-time nomads in our big yellow truck. The truck is not yet finished, but we just got the graphics put on this past week. Here’s what it looks like at this point:

The truck, named Walter, with the new graphics on it. You can learn more about the truck on our Instagram or YouTube, also called Nomadic MidLife.

This is one of those eggs in one basket things. We’ve sold or given away nearly everything else we own. We have no Plan B. This is our tiny home on wheels for the foreseeable future.

The plan is to use this truck as a tool—a literal vehicle to carry God’s love and grace to people around the world, some people like us and some very different. We want to hear people’s stories, bless them and be blessed by them. We want to see what Christianity looks like outside the United States. We want to help where we are needed and learn from those who have things to teach us.

When we went to Puerto Rico to work under the leadership of a locally owned and operated aid organization there, we asked if you would help us help them. They told us what they needed; we told you; and you funded the purchases for us to deliver in person.

That’s what we want to do with our travels. As of June 18, this Substack will have the option of paid subscriptions, but the money will not go to us personally. Although I would love to get paid for my writing, I am stepping away from that dream, at least for now.

Your paid subscription dollars will go toward two specific things, the two parts of the Diesel and Dignity Fund. Up to 50% of the money received will go toward the purchase of the yellow truck’s diesel fuel, as much as is needed to get us down the road. The other 50% will compile in a slush fund we can draw from to meet the practical needs of people we encounter along the road. As my subscription base grows, I hope I won’t need 50% to cover our fuel. Perhaps 30% of each month’s Substack income would be sufficient to cover the fuel, and 70% would go to helping others.

I’m excited to think that, with enough growth in paid readership, we might need only 10% (or even less!) of the subscription fees to cover our fuel, and a huge amount would be available to meet the needs we encounter, so we can increasingly bless people practically as they likewise bless us with their hospitality, wisdom, and friendship.

Diesel and Dignity. It’s a winning combo, in my opinion.

We are better together. We need each other. And that’s ok.

This past weekend, Andy’s sister and her husband came from Bellingham, Washington to help us for a few days. Side by side, we worked crazy long hours doing hot and dusty and dirty work. We cleaned out the seemingly impossible loft above the barn (the one with no staircase anymore) and we emptied out the dreaded storage trailer out back. We organized and discarded and burned some more. It was amazing, and so productive! The energy boost we received from their presence was incalculable. Not only did we get so much done, but even when they left this morning, we were still filled with residual joy and enthusiasm. It will carry us through these last weeks when we need it most.

As we learned from a wise distant relative in Zambia last summer, “You can pretend to care, but you can’t pretend to show up.”

Like a small-scale incarnation, they showed up this weekend, in the flesh, and provided what we needed. They helped us work. They helped us organize. They helped us say goodbye. They even cooked for us. Their presence and generosity blessed the socks right off our tired, stinky, work boot feet. At the same time, they also learned from us, grew with us, processed life’s mysteries with us. We all benefitted from the time together.

We are better together. We need each other. And that’s ok.

So this new Substack makeover is really an invitation for you to partner with us as we go, in person, showing up and encouraging others as we learn and grow alongside them. You will still be able to read these posts for free, but I would encourage you to consider becoming a paid subscriber. More on that next time.

Voting without registration or ID

Last week I put out a poll, seeking your feedback on four new logo ideas. According to my provided analytics, hundreds of people read the post, but only 12 individuals cast votes.

Twelve.

So, here I am again, asking for your vote². You can see what the truck looks like. You’ve read about our heart for our travels and my goals for this Substack. So, let’s get out the vote! Here are your options. If you voted last week, please do so AGAIN—preferably clicking on the poll itself, rather than just sending me a private message.

The Launch Team

Well, I’m chagrined to say this might be a bust. I know other writers organize launch teams for new books and such, so I thought I could just do it too—with no experience at such things. I even bought gifts for those who were willing to help spread the word about (what I think is) this exciting new endeavor—the switch to Diesel and Dignity as we hit the road.

Last week I wrote about ways you dear readers could get behind this without spending much time or any money. Unfortunately, only one person expressed any interest in the launch team. While I am grateful for that one person, it’s a bigger job that she and I can do.

We are better together. We need each other. And that’s ok.

So, if you were thinking about it and just forgot to contact me, I would surely love to hear from you.

That’s all for now. Don’t forget to scroll back up and vote!

Until next week,

Sherry

1. Chatoyance refers to a cat’s eye effect often found in wood (and also some gemstones). Basically, funky growth patterns in the wood create uneven refraction of light on the smooth surface, causing it to create an optical illusion of three-dimensional depth and even movement. Here are some amazing photos and tidbits of information about different types of figured wood grain that are all characterized by varying levels and types of chatoyance.

2. This may be the easiest, most painless voting decision you make this year!