Three Trees Stood in a Forest

by Richard McCormack

  Scarred, Stained, and Abused

  Two trees stood in a forest.

  Time passed since they last saw their brother tree.

  “I wonder how he is doing?” said the second tree.

  “We’ll of course, by now, he is a beautiful bed that dreams are made of,” said the third tree.

  “I am so glad,” said the second tree, “for I know that God never abandons us, and that soon I will be a beautiful table where kings and princes will one day dine. Where I shall be adorned by beautiful chalices. Where eternal covenants and pledges shall be made. That is what I was created for.”

  Years pass and soon the trees look down and saw the lumberjack coming with his ax. The second tree looks to the third and says, “It’s me he’s coming for. It is time that I become that beautiful table for the king.”

  Chop, chop, chop goes the ax, and soon the tree falls. The lumberjack dogs the tree to the ox and down the hill they go to the carpenter’s shop.

  As they arrive at the carpenter’s shop they meet the carpenter outside looking through his wood pile. He had a large order from the king to fill— it was for a table. Yet, as he dug he realized he didn’t have the right wood. Then he saw the tree being pulled by the lumberjack.

  “What a beautiful tree,” the carpenter says. “This is what I am looking for. I can make it into a beautiful table! A table that only a king and his royal family will sit at. A table where treaties, covenants, and pledges will be made! I will make you into a beautiful table.”

  The tree is so excited! Soon he will be a table of dreams. He will be handcrafted, polished, and adorned. He will be the envy of talk. For hundreds, if not thousands of years people will talk of such a table. He knew that there was nothing that could stop him from becoming the perfect table.

  The carpenter meticulously begins the process of cutting the tree. He measures everything and carefully checks his measurements twice. He wanted nothing to go wrong. He looks at his design again and again and pictures, in his mind, the beauty and majesty of the table that is to come.

  “It will be my crowning achievement!” the carpenter thought. “People will talk about this table for generations. They will wish they could have one like it.”

  Soon the time came to make the first cut. He thinks to himself that he will cut it to length first to make it easier to handle.

  It’s a strong tree!

  It will make a strong table.

  The first cut goes well, and so does the second. All goes as planned. It will be a beautiful table. The anticipation is high. The grain of the wood is spectacular! The carpenter cannot remember a tree with such a striking grain.

  Once again the carpenter measures meticulously and checks the settings twice. He pulls one of the cut length of the tree onto the cutting table and starts the long cut. This is the most challenging—the most crucial cut. If this is wrong . . .

  He sighs. Everything has been checked and rechecked, all is taken into account; however, unknown to the carpenter a tooth in the saw blade has bent and a gorge is mangled out of the middle of the tree. The carpenter feels the tension but he thinks it is only the force of the grain— it is a good grain— he pushes on.

  “I am going to be a beautiful table!” the tree thinks. “Royalty will sit around me.”

  As the carpenter comes to the end of the tree the log is laid open. It is only then that the carpenter notices the gorge cut deep into the tree.

  “No!” The tree screams out. “I was going to be a beautiful table! Now look what you have done. You have scarred me for life. I will never be what I should’ve been.”

  The carpenter stands in dismay. He does not know what to do. He has already made the cuts needed for the size of the table. It cannot be made into anything else without wasting so much wood. Maybe he can salvage the wood and make it into a table? Maybe he can sand, patch, and finish the table where nobody will notice? Maybe?

  As the carpenter frantically works he sees a glimmer of hope. The legs are straight and the frame is strong, but the scars— they are deep.

  “Maybe if I apply stronger grit, or sand a little harder, maybe that will take the scars out?” the carpenter thinks. However, the harder the carpenter works the uglier the scars become until the table is beyond repair.

  The carpenter gives up and thinks to himself, “If only I would have checked the blade.” Reluctantly he sets the table in the corner of the shop in discuss.

  One mistake!

  One mistake, that is all it took. Everything was going so well, then one mistake . . .

  Time passes and soon the tree, now a scarred table, becomes a place for scrap wood, broken tools, and forgotten plans. The old table is now scarred and stained, it has been forgotten for what it was going to be. It is no longer at the front of the carpenter’s mind. It is now only a workbench—a forgotten dream, that is scarred and stained.

  Days pass into years, and years into decades and the table becomes a workbench, and sometimes a display table outside in the open air. He likes being outside, it reminds him of growing tall in the forest. Even whenever the carpenter forgets to bring him in from the rain he doesn’t mind. It reminds him of the days of beauty and of the dream he once had.

  One day as he was outside, being a table for a display of little knickknacks, a chariot roared through the streets. People dove out of the way of the chariot as it recklessly barreled through the street. The table could see that the chariot was out of control and that he was going to be hit, but what is he to do? Screaming would do no good, the tree thought, for who would listen. He watched as the chariot swerved. Its wheels spinning recklessly toward the table. Then it happened— the chariot slammed into the table and the table’s leg broke in half as the wheel rumbled over it. The carpenter ran out of the shop waving his fists at the Roman centurion, but it was too late. The damage was already done.

  “I was going to be something,” the table thought to himself. “I was going to be a beautiful table where kings and princes sat.” The thought lingers off into the dark night of the soul as the table is repaired with a stub of a leg. Once again the table is set up as a display and the broken leg is quickly forgotten.

  A few months later two men arrive at the carpenters shop and point to the table.

  “Now what?” The table thinks to himself and as he is picked up and carried down the street. “Haven’t I suffered enough? What more do I need to bear? What more can this world do to me?” The men carry the table down a long and winding street, then up a stairwell to an upper room. They carry the table more delicately than He is use to. They take their time as they round the corners, careful not to nick or scratch the table anymore. Then they enter into the room and place the table in the middle of the room. The men brush the dust from the table and leave. Hope flickers in the heart of the table, but only for a moment. The wounds are too deep, the scars are too jagged.

  “Great!” the table says to himself as the men close the door behind them. “Now I am left in the dark. Once again I am forgotten. Once again I will be used and abused.”

  Time passes, and the noon day turns to late afternoon. A shadow, cast from the table, stretches across the room. The light in the room grows dimmer and dimmer until twilight concludes the day.

  As twilight arrives women fare in through the door carrying buckets and cloths. They light a lamp above the table and begin gingerly scrubbing and washing the table removing the grit and grime.

  Their hands—delicate.

  Their attitude—reverent.

  They dry the table as if it was part of a royal family’s household furnishing. How different is this than the carpenter’s shop. Soon the women bring oil and wax. They polish the table with passion bringing out its luster and beauty.

  “Yes! This is how it could have been,” the table thinks to himself as he is bathed in the warmth and caressing of the women. The grain is deep and lustrous. It stands out in the table. The table becomes radiant in color as the polish is applied.


  “This is the way it was suppose to be,” the table thinks. “I was suppose to be cleaned and waxed, polished and shined. Yes, I would have been a table to remember. A table that would be mentioned with a king. A table where he would make law and covenants. That is what I was suppose to be.”

  The women continue about their business preparing the room for the evening. A beautiful melody rings out as they sing with their work. Their discussion is heavy with the reverent aroma of ‘Him who is coming.’

  “Who is coming?” the table wonders.

  “What is he going to do with me?”

  But soon the labor is over and the women leave; however, the moment . . . yes the moment . . . that was special.

  As the last woman leaves the room the table finds a peace coming over him. He reflects on one of the older women, who, with her finger, ran it down the scar that the saw made because of the carpenter. She was very compassionate and delicate with an almost emotional connection to his scar. She was careful as she poured wax into the scar and polished it smooth. She took her time, and the table believes he felt a tear fall softly by his scar as she gently rubbed it. Never had the table had anyone care for him as much as these women.

  As the last glimmer of light yields to the night, and the only light in the room comes from the lamp, the men who brought the table return, but this time with others who are very chatty. They seem excited and full of vigor. It is time for the table to be used for what he was created for. The table’s heart pounds with excitement as the men stand around him waiting to sit on the cushions that surround him. It is so prestigious, so honorable. It is almost as if they are waiting on royalty. It is then the table realizes someone else has entered the room. One who is with them but who is different—almost . . radiant.

  The women return and place food on the table as the men commence to recline. It is the day of preparation for the Passover. The table had heard about the Passover from the carpenter. He remembers the many years he would be removed from the room and placed outside the shop and a more beautiful table would be brought in. Then the family would gather around that table— not him. They would recline around the more beautiful table eating, drinking, and singing songs. Bitterness, anger, and jealousy burned in the table’s heart as he would watch “the more beautiful” table become the center-piece of the service. All the while he had to endure being placed outside the shop, watching through the window being once again not “good” enough. My, don’t the scars run deep.

  The table draws his bitterness and thoughts back to the moment. A moment that he has ever dreamed of. The service is so wonderful! So beautiful! So precious! Food and wine are passed around the table from person to person. Laughter fills the room as it should. Joy fills the heart of everyone at the table.

  “This is what it was suppose to be like,” the table reflects. “ This is where I would have been if that carpenter would not have been careless and scarred me!”

  “Abused me!”

  “Stained me for life!”

  Once again the memories flash through the tables mind; however, this time he pushes them down quickly. Delighting in the moment the table’s heart is warmed by the honor that has been given him—even though he knows it is just for a night.

  As the women leave the men grow silent. All eyes are upon the radiant Man who reclines in the middle of the group. The table listens, almost mesmerized by the voice of the Man. The tree, now the table, doesn’t quiet understand what is happening. The carpenter never did this part in his service.

  “Where is that man going?” the table wonders. “No one ever leaves the service. Why is he rushing out of the room? Why doesn’t anyone notice him leave or even care?”

  The table strains to listen as the radiant Man lifts a loaf of bread and breaks it in two. He hands the halves to the man on His left and His right.

  “What do you mean, ‘This is my body?’” the table asks, “Why is your body broken?”

  Puzzled the table watches as the radiant Man holds a cup high and passes it to the man on His right.

  “What blood?” the table inquires. “What covenant? How is it new?”

  The men seem more concerned now, worried, and agitated. Especially the one who picked up the swords.

  “He must be the bravest one of them all,” the table thinks to himself.

  The radiant Man talks with them more about the coming days and assures them He will not leave them.

  “He must be a carpenter,” the tree thinks, because He is going to build a house for them in His Fathers house.”

  Finally a song is sung, hugs are exchanged, and the men leave. Soon the women will be back in to clean the table.

  “It was a good night,” the table thinks. “I hope people remember this night.”