A couple of weeks ago I told you a story on the podcast that happened while we were building our house. Today’s post happened during that same time. In fact, it happened right before that other story.
My wife and I were thrifty. Still are. That’s a cool way of saying we were cheap and broke. I knew we were going to be pounding nails till the end of time so I was jonesin’ hard for an air nailer and compressor. That nail gun would blast our project into hyper-drive. Not to mention I would look really cool using it. The Good. The Bad. And the Carpenter.
Christie felt like it was a dangerous and unnecessary expense. I countered with “If Jesus was a carpenter now He would use a nail gun.” She would soon recant her ridiculous statements after our first day of framing, which yielded only a few feet of wall, throbbing arms and swollen fingers the likes of Shrek. Bulbous and green.
WOOHOO! I was off to choose my weapon of mass construction.
Things went well for the next few months. We managed to get the bottom floor framed and were working upstairs on the bedrooms. One day I was in a tight jam. I needed to nail the header over a door frame. It was too tight and too heavy for me to hold it and nail it at the same time, so I asked for help.
Christie hesitantly climbed a ladder to get the angle we needed for the nailer and I held the weighty header over my head. She pressed the nailer in place and pulled the trigger. Between its weight and the kick from firing, she double-fired. The first nail sank a quarter inch deep in the fleshy two-by-ten. The second screamed out of the gun, missing the wood and fixing its sights on me.
In that moment, God transformed me into Morpheus of The Matrix fame. I actually saw the nail exit the gun in time to throw my head to the left. Originally pointing between my eyes, the nail now passed by my neck. It was so close that the head cut a scratch across my jugular vein leaving a tiny trail of blood to testify of its trek.
I slapped my hand to my neck and checked for damage. Ironically, we had just snapped a chalk line with red chalk. That chalk mixed with the sweat on my neck and hands and convinced me I was a goner. It looked as if I was bleeding out. Red everywhere.
When I held my hand up to look at it, I saw my dad hovering on two legs of his folding chair, with his back dangling over the second story drop. He was taking a break at the edge of the house when Christie shot me. In his zeal to get up he nearly turned his chair over and off the top floor.
I can’t explain how we built that house without dying or at the very least losing a limb. I can’t explain His incredible love for me. I didn’t earn but He just gives it. I can’t explain why after so many stories like this one that I still don’t fully trust Him. I second-guess Him and weigh out my decisions on what I can see and not on Who I know.