Wood ought to have a special place in the heart of every Christian. It cradled Our Lord at His Birth. It was worked by His holy hands as He hallowed human labor during His Hidden Life. It was saturated by His Precious Blood as He wrought our redemption on the Cross.
As a traditional woodcarver, this reverence for wood is familiar to me, as is the dignity of human work that is evoked by this Feast of St. Joseph. Woodcarving is a craft little changed by the passage of time, and my saws, drawknives, planes, chisels, gouges, and mallets would not, on the whole, be unfamiliar to the calloused hands of St. Joseph or his Apprentice. I am grateful to be able to provide for my family by the work of my hands, as they did.
In one corner of my shop is a panel that will be carved and gilded to hold a priceless relic of the True Cross. In another stands an altarpiece to house a crucifix which will hang above the Tabernacle in our parish church.Upstairs, away from the sawdust and wood chips, several statues are being restored and repainted: St. Joseph holding the Child Jesus; St. Therese with her roses and crucifix; St. Jude with his large wooden club. Thank God for good work!
This autumn will mark ten years of carving professionally, but wood has been a significant part of my life since childhood. My father was a carpenter and he and I worked together for years, and I think the pungent scent of freshly cut pine will forever remind me of him. My mother and I spent countless hours in the woods, marveling at the beauty that surrounded us. Both have been crucially formative to my work today.
I learned from my father that what I build should be built with as much strength and durability as possible. Those hikes with my mother laid the foundation of a sense of timeless beauty that I endeavor to impart to all my carvings. Both are necessary. Especially when something is to adorn God’s house or to be used in the supreme act of worship that is the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, it must be built to last and possess an unfading beauty which facilitates contemplative prayer.
I suspect there is a connection between my fond memories of childhood and my favorite depictions of the Holy Family: at work in Nazareth. Our Lady sits in the doorway with her drop spindle and distaff while St. Joseph and the Child Jesus ply their woodcraft. That picture of their family working together has long drawn me, especially in our age when the family is being flung to pieces. When the norm is for father to work in one place at a job he does not love, mother to work in another where her unique, maternal dignity is not reverenced, and for children to study in yet other places where they are not seen as gifts from God, these images of the Holy Family at Work serve as critical reminders that things weren’t always this way—that they don’t have to be this way.
From the start, my wife and I were convinced that there must be another way. When we met, married, converted, and started our family during college, we knew we wanted our home to be more than just the place we slept after long days spent elsewhere. We wanted it to be the center of our family’s life spent together. I had continued to work with my hands to support our growing family in the midst of my studies, and, upon graduation, I was left at a crossroads.
“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood…” to use the words of Mr. Frost.
Down the one, by way of further education and a graduate degree, a career in academia was faintly discernible. Down the other, little trodden in our time, was the life of a craftsman surrounded by his family—like that depicted in those images of the Holy Family in Nazareth—not unlike the one I had known as a child. Ultimately, “I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference.”
