Editorial

Clair Johnson

writes from Ceres, California.

My Dad’s Workshop

“Isn’t this the carpenter? Isn’t This Mary’s Son?” (Mark 6:3, NKJV).*

Growing up was such fun. Of course, the farther I am away from my youth, the better it looks. Poor eyesight and fading memories do help.

My fondest memory of growing up was visiting my father’s workshop. I loved the warm, pungent fragrance of new wood and the dusting of sawdust. The old, stained, striped engineer’s cap he always wore and the same tuneless whistle coming from the shop told me that everything was OK, and it gave me confidence and assurance.

My father was a master builder by trade, and he wore his uniform proudly. There was a pocket for his small gold …

This content is only available to subscribers.

If you are already subscribed to the magazine, click the login button below.

Subscribe Now

We reserve the right to approve and disapprove comments accordingly and will not be able to respond to inquiries regarding that. Please keep all comments respectful and courteous to authors and fellow readers.
comments powered by Disqus