More Than Firewood

 Years ago, my dad and I planted an apricot tree. We had high hopes for it, envisioning summers filled with fresh fruit. But nature had other plans. The tree only produced fruit once in its entire life. Eventually, bugs got to it, boring deep holes into the trunk, and disease took over. It was, by any agricultural standard, a failure. Dad eventually had to cut it down to make room for something productive.

To most people, that pile of bug-eaten logs was just firewood. It had lost its utility, its integrity was compromised by voids and cracks, and it was full of defects.

But I saw something else in the wood. I took it into my shop with the intention of turning it into bowls. It was difficult wood to work with; the bug damage meant there were significant chunks missing, and old injuries had created swirling, stubborn burls. If I wanted these bowls to actually hold anything—to be usable—I had to address the voids.

I didn't try to hide the damage. Instead, I filled the cracks with colorful epoxy. The resin flowed into the deepest empty spaces, bonding the shattered grain back together. When it hardened, it didn't just make the wood functional again; the vibrant color contrasting with the natural grain made it far more beautiful than a "perfect" piece of wood would have been.

It reminds me of Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 12:9: "And He has said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.'"

I can pick up those bowls today and tell you the story of the cracks. The epoxy scars aren't ugly blemishes; they are the defining features of the piece’s beauty.

The Craftsman’s Hands

It got me thinking about how God looks at us.

I was reading through the creation account recently and I noticed a shift that I hadn't really paid attention to before. When God created the universe—the stars, the oceans, the mountains—He simply spoke. He commanded, and reality obeyed. "Then God said, 'Let there be light'; and there was light" (Genesis 1:3).

But when it came to humanity, the method changed. He stopped speaking at creation and started working in it.

"Then the Lord God formed man of dust from the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being." (Genesis 2:7)

I dug into that word "formed" a bit, and it turns out the Hebrew word used there (yatsar) is the same term used for a potter molding clay. He got His hands dirty. We weren’t just commanded into existence; we were crafted.

He Doesn't Need the Wood

This leads to a realization that really shifts my perspective. God is God. He is perfect and complete. He wasn't sitting in heaven lonely, needing us to fill a void in His life. Paul actually had to explain this to the men of Athens in Acts 17:25—that God "is not served by human hands, as though He needed anything, since He Himself gives to all people life and breath and all things."

If God needed us to be productive—like a farmer needs an apricot tree—He would have discarded us the moment we sinned and stopped producing righteousness. We would have been firewood.

But He didn't throw us away. Why?

Because He wants us.

Just like I didn't need that broken apricot wood to survive, God doesn’t need us. I kept the wood simply because I desired to see what it could become on my lathe. God keeps us because He desires to have us at His table.

Reframing the Rescue

This completely reframes John 3:16 for me: "For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son..."

I used to read that as a rescue mission, which it is. But if God needed us, the Cross would just be a necessary repair—a calculated expense to fix His broken workforce. But because God just wants us, the Cross becomes a staggering, voluntary act of passion.

The "epoxy" of His grace—paid for with the life of His Son—flowed into the deepest voids of our sin. He didn't have to do it. He chose to. As Peter wrote, the Lord is "not wishing for any to perish but for all to come to repentance" (2 Peter 3:9). That is the language of desire, not obligation.

When I really stop and try to understand the desperation of God's desire for us, the appeal of sin just falls apart. Why would I hang on to the handful of mud that is my brokenness when I am being offered the diamond of His intimate love?

God is the ultimate Craftsman. He doesn't just want to patch us up so we can hold water; He wants to fill our broken places with His grace in a way that makes us more beautiful than if we had never broken at all. He wants to set us on His table, not as mere utensils, but as cherished heirlooms.