Taking the brokenness out of being broken.
When I was a little girl, Daddy’s workbench seemed to be the “fix all” place for anything. Located on the side wall of our garage, Daddy made the bench himself with what must have been the remnants of Noah’s ark. He made it so that the top was used for fixing and the bottom for storage. Over the years it became textured with oil stains and hammer dents, nail holes, and many a permanent scratch or chip.
As a little girl I remember feeling as if I had the strongest, manliest, most capable daddy in the world whenever I saw him working there. Most important, broken things could be fixed there. …