Broken John

  To mend the broken things

John Clare Stokes

When before I turned ten in Sopchoppy, I took the John Wesley bust from the shelf in my fathers parsonage office and began to dance around the house with him. I think my sister may have been dancing with the other, Charles, but needless to say, I dropped John, breaking him in many pieces. 

I do not recall getting a whipping, I’m sure I did, but I do recall my father meticulously glueing back Wesley, until you could hardly tell he took a fall.

And so the Wesley’s went with us through the years unscathed upon the various shelves, to finally dwell in our Lake City home. 

And so this Fathers Day morning, I found myself in the back shed, attempting to mend an old rake long broken. Among the old tools, there was much contemplating upon my father and his passing along to me that desire to restore, to mend, to up purpose as a friend likes to share.

And then there is that same desire my father had as a Pastor to mend, to restore to want lives of loved ones to find their up purpose.

Will the old rake work? Will Wesley find a shelf when I’m gone? Will a son find home? Until then, I mend.