Stories

This winter seemed an appropriate time to read (for the third time) J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings.

The story of two brave little halflings summoning their courage and overcoming the odds to stop the all-encompassing Evil? Yes.

The story of beings of all persuasions–Elves, Dwarves, Men, Wizards, Hobbits, Ents, Trees, Eagles–uniting together despite their differences to defeat the return of evil? Yes.

The story of Evil, gathering its shadowy powers a second time, through lies, webs, and deceit? Yes, again.

I’m nearing the end of The Two Towers. If you remember, you know that this is some of the darkest of dark times. Frodo and Sam have followed Gollum up the winding, treacherous stairs of Cirith Ungol, which in Sindarin means the cleft of the spider. Even Gollum has made veiled references to the harrowing tunnel ahead. I have looked at the name of the next chapter, “Shelob’s Lair.” I know both what is immediately ahead, and further ahead. It’s the unpleasant-est of journeys.

I put the book down and wonder if I should continue reading now, or perhaps later.

My son texts me–the name of a podcast I should listen to. I text him back–I feel like we are climbing Mt. Doom with Frodo and Sam. Following after Gollum.

I close my eyes and consider. The sun is shining, but it is 18 degrees, with a wind chill of 2. Even with the sun coming through the glass, I am under a blanket on the couch. It’s only two o’clock. I will finish this chapter.

“In a dark crevice between two great piers of rocks they sat down…”

The two hobbits think perhaps it might be the last meal they share together. And then Sam begins to talk as if they were really in a story, wondering if it was a happy-ending kind of tale or a sad ending, and how the people in the tale don’t really know. And how it would be a bad story if they did know. Frodo laughs–the first laugh for many days. ‘But you didn’t put anything in about Sam,’ he says. ‘And Frodo wouldn’t have gotten very far without Sam, would he dad?’ And then Frodo says,

“You and I, Sam, are still stuck in the worst places of the story, and it is all too likely that some will say at this point: ‘Shut the book now, dad; we don’t want to read anymore.'”

Yes. That’s just how I felt.

In truth, it’s how I feel every day. Shut the book now, dad; we don’t want to read anymore. Turn the page, turn to the next chapter, where the villain is defeated, and the heroes are celebrating. Wounded, yes, but celebrating their bravery and courage.

It is true that the best stories often turn out to be the hardest of journeys.

But that is only if the heroes win.

But I can’t end there, can I? Because I believe that ultimately, heroes do win.

It’s just that right now, we’re in that hard part of the tale….

I used to tell a story in my days working in libraries with kids, and its been on my mind lately. I know reading is not the same as hearing, but do your best to hear it being told…

Once upon a time there were two neighbors who were also farmers and friends. They’d been all three for almost forty years. Trading stories, tools, helping each other put up hay–all the things that farmers, neighbors, and friends do for each other.

And then one day they had a falling out. Oh, it was over something stupid, like Paul lost Joe’s favorite hay rake; or Joe called Paul a name in jest and Paul took it wrong. What they argued about doesn’t really matter because the next day Paul took his tractor and dug a big ditch between the two men’s properties. Water from the top of the hill searched out the ditch and now a decent-sized creek was the boundary line between the two farms, when before, there had been none.

There was a terrible silence between the two men for weeks.

One day Joe looked up from working in the barn to see a man standing in the doorway. He was carrying a wooden tool box that was well filled with awls, rasps, screws, and nails. He had two saws in a pack on his back. “G’mornin,” he said with an easy smile. “Got any projects you need done or things you might need fixin’?”

Joe thought a bit and then smiled back. “You’ve come at a good time. Follow me.” Joe led the carpenter down to the rushing stream. “Ya see this crick? T’wasn’t here three weeks ago. My neighbor put it in to spite me, and I’m mighty mad about the whole thing. I want you to build me a nice wall with that pile a lumber I have in the barn. And I’ll pay ya well if ya do a good job.”

The carpenter nodded. “I have just the project in mind for you. I think you’ll be pleased.”

“I have to go to town today,” Joe told the carpenter. “I can get ya more wood if you think you’ll need some.”

“I think this will be plenty,” the carpenter told him. He took his saws from his sack, spread his tools on the ground, and hurried off to haul the lumber he needed to get to work.

When Joe returned from town late in the afternoon, his jaw dropped at the sight. There across the creek was a graceful wooden bridge with sturdy railings and a deck big enough to support a tractor or a truck or a wagon. And there on the other side of the bridge was his neighbor Paul waving and smiling. He crossed the bridge and grabbed Joe’s hand, shaking it up and down with abandon. “I have to say I don’t know what possessed you to have this bridge built after these last weeks of ugliness between us, but I am so glad you did. I’ve wondered and wondered how we could ever make a bridge over what happened, and dog gone it, you went and done it. Built a bridge right over it.” He shook his head in amazement.

Joe was stunned into silence, but he had a grin smeared all over his face. “T’wasn’t me,” he finally stuttered to his friend. “It was this here carpenter gent’s work.”

They turned to look at the carpenter who was packing up his tools. Joe called to him, “Please don’t go. I got several other projects for ya — you did a fine job on this one.”

The carpenter shook his head and smiled. He shouldered his saws, picked up his tool box, and waved at the two friends. “I can’t stay,” he told them. “I’ve got other bridges to build.” And with those last words he disappeared over the hill.

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We live in a world that builds walls, but bridge building can be done by anyone–you don’t have to be a carpenter or an engineer. What kind of bridge can you build? A footbridge? A covered bridge? Or a glorious bridge that overcomes fear and unforgiveness? Imitate the carpenter–love your neighbor and build a bridge, not a wall.

This story has been around for a long time, mostly as Author Unknown. I found it as “Old Joe and the Carpenter” in Thirty-Three Multicultural Tales to Tell by Pleasant DeSpain. Margaret Read MacDonald published a version by the same name in Peace Tales. When I searched the internet I found an original version–much longer and more colorful–as a story On the Hills and Everywhere written by Manly Wade Wellman (ca. 1956) in a book of stories called John the Balladeer. This is my own version.