The Stonemason

I haven't written anything in a long, looong time. And it shows. After deciding to and writing a story again, I compared it to my old works and was devastated at the comparison. Well, my old stories weren't great either, so you see how terrible this one is. The point is that I want to start writing again, and this is my feeble first step.

The Stonemason

John dropped his carving tools with an angry clatter. He turned around and kicked the side of his last letter, “H,” scuffing purposely. “Of all the worthless…” He set his jaw, and a vein bulged in the creases on his forehead. As he passed the beginning of his work - a youthful attempt at a “T” - he steeled his eyes away from it. He walked with the determination that he would either calm himself with walking, or march over the edge of the page.
“ Good morning, John!” called out a woman who considered herself friendly. “How are you today?”
John kept walking. Why were people so spitefully cheerful? What does “how are you?” mean anyway? Did his neighbors truly want to know the state of his physical, mental, and spiritual wellbeing?
“I’m doing well, too!” the lady called after him. “Have a nice day!” The social rite of greeting must make some people feel accomplished.
John wandered in between some old letters where he thought no one else would bother him. Stumbling over a loose stone enraged John, and he picked up a rock and threw it in the direction he had come. John sat against the side of a “G” and place his head on his knees. In an instant his head felt clearer, and he noticed his heart pounding fiercely.
Was he really that bad of a stone mason? Why did God relegate him to such a miniscule task? John had previously prided himself on not thinking of himself too loftily, but perhaps he had still overestimated.
He picked up a rock the size of his fist and ground it on the stone floor. The stones growled satisfyingly. John threw that rock away as well. As he raised his face again, John blinked against the brightness and found a twig nearby. John traced out his life’s work in the sand at his left. “T-H-E.” He stared at it discontentedly. As a young man he had been excited to receive a commission, carving a great “T” out of stone, masonry tools, and ambition. That first letter took the longest, for he wanted it to be perfect – a good start to a solid career. The day he ended the “T” he received his next letter: “H.” John neared middle-aged by the time he received this, and though he finished the “H” in half the time he spent on the “T,” he realized that his life’s purpose could not be very long.
“But maybe it could be.” Unnatural optimism sparked in him. “There are lots of words that start with “THE” that have great meaning… such as… theology. And…theo…well, I don’t even have to know the word, as I’m given the letters. I’m just a stone mason.”
“Hello, John.”
John flinched. His old friend, Faithful, edged along the curve of the “G” as he approached him.
“May I sit with you, friend?” Faithful asked.
John shrugged. Faithful leaned against the “G” and slid his body partway down, frequently adjusting his cane for balance, one time planting it on John’s let.
“Sorry, my boy.” Faithful’s knees creaked as he lowered himself the rest of the way to the ground. “I hear you have received your last letter,” he said when he was finally settled.
John nodded again. “Yes. I had hoped for more, but… it’s my last. I’m getting old, Faithful.”
Faithful laughed. “You’re not near my age, and you still have much hewing to do. I’ve finished my word, or so I thought. Apparently God wants me to keep chipping at it to make the edges clearer. I’m not sure, exactly.”
The friends sat in silence.
“I have thought, too, about the words others were given,” Faithful commented between the silence.
John blinked.
“…Well, there were the names, those are important. And then there are some great words, ‘BELIEVE,’ for example, or ‘JUDGE.’ They give a mason something to think about while he is carving. But you can’t choose your word, John. It’s a honor that you’re given one, really. The point may be that it’s not the word that is important, but the way you’ve done it. With a joyful spirit, see.”
“Joyful spirit…” John muttered.
“Why, yes, joyful spirit! Even if your task is meaningless, it’s always good to throw in a little joyful spirit to make the whole process better!”
“Thank you, Faithful.” John stood and shook the dust off his trousers. “I think I’ll go back to my letters now.”
“It’s always my pleasure to talk to you, my boy.” Faithful tried to pick himself off the ground. John helped him, to save himself the exertion of watching Faithful strain.
John began walking away.
“John!” Faithful called after him. John stopped. Faithful hobbled near. “John. You don’t know how your work influences the bigger poem of life. See? One day we’ll get to heaven, and we’ll say ‘Oh, look! How nicely that “THE” is formed from up here. Look at that one thing I did, and how it impacts everything else.’ Then the Lord may even thank you for your work. You just have to have faith, my boy, that God works things out like that.”
John thought. “Thank you, Faithful.”
Faithful smiled. “You’re welcome, my boy, always.”
John walked away slowly, picking his way through the letters as he contemplated. When he got back to his “TH,” he gathered his tools back into his work bag, and took out his marker. He turned it in his hand. Slowly, carefully, he began to measure the length of his “E.”
~ ~ ~
Years later, when John was almost as old as Faithful (though Faithful had been gone long since), John chipped off the final imperfections on his “E.” He thought about the beginning of his last letter, and how foolish he had been over it. “Troubling over the glory of his letters, how sensitive,” he thought. John felt satisfied with them now, and even grateful that he wasn’t given those long words such as “ASCENDED,” “FORGIVENESS,” or “EVERLASTING,” which usually took a whole family to build. Instead, he was satisfied with what God had given him, and at peace with the outcome.
After eating a plain meal, John lay himself on his cot and fell asleep.
“Wake up, John.”
John opened his eyes. He saw a man he knew, and was filled with joy. “Hello, Lord.”
“John, I have something to show you.”
They went to the edge of Heaven and peered down to the page below. There, John saw the whole poem:
“I BELIEVE IN GOD THE FATHER ALMIGHTY,
MAKER OF HEAVEN AND EARTH,
AND IN JESUS CHRIST
HIS ONLY BEGOTTEN SON OUR LORD.
HE WAS CONCEIVED OF THE HOLY SPIRIT,
BORN OF THE VIRGIN MARY,
SUFFERED UNDER PONTIOUS PILATE,
WAS CRUCIFIED, DEAD, AND BURIED.
HE DECENDED INTO THE GRAVE,
AND ON THE THIRD DAY,
HE ROSE AGAIN, ACCORDING TO THE SCRIPTURES.
HE ASCENDED INTO HEAVEN,
WHERE HE SITS AT THE RIGHT HAND OF GOD THE FATHER ALMIGHTY.
FROM THERE HE SHALL COME TO JUDGE THE QUICK AND THE DEAD.
I BELIEVE IN THE HOLY SPIRIT,
THE HOLY CATHOLIC CHURCH,
THE COMMUNION OF SAINTS,
THE FORGIVENESS OF SINS,
THE RESURRECTION OF THE BODY,
AND THE LIFE EVERLASTING,
AMEN.

“What do you think, John?” the Lord asked.
John stared. On the page he had thought that Heaven would loosen his tongue, but instead it staggered it further. “I think… of how beautiful and large everything is. Look at everything you did, and how it works together like that.” John smiled. “Thank you for letting me be a part of it.”