My Father's Hammer

My dad was a builder. He built an indoor bathroom in his father’s house in Virgin, Utah after he came home from World War II – using his mustering-out pay to pay for it – a huge improvement for his young bride and his parents, who used an outhouse prior to that time, and a small indication of things to come.

He had a hammer that he used for years and years. He drove innumerable thousands of nails with it. I have it today. In his hands, it was a working hammer, not beautiful, but practical – a tool – nothing more. It has a wood handle, a standard 16 oz head, and various scars and chips and scratches on the head and handle. It would not be a hammer of choice for a carpenter today. It doesn’t have a drop-forged handle and head or a leather grip, or even very good balance – it feels heavy on the head-end when you hold it in your hand. Yet he could keep up with the best of them with it. He could drive a 16-penny nail in three strokes and tried to teach me how to do that – but I was not very motivated in those days.

Nowadays, for me, it is a symbol of my father’s industriousness, natural engineering and construction skills, and his constant desire to serve his family and others. I wish I had paid more attention to his skillful construction of many things, not the least of which was his desire to build me as his son into a productive, caring individual.

My dad was indeed a builder. He worked many hours on the old Pittsburg Ward chapel, which was assembled from a WWII base chapel and a dental clinic moved together to form the chapel, recreation hall, kitchen, and classrooms. He even climbed the steeple to help re-roof it, even though he was deathly afraid of heights. I have a picture of him 50 feet off the ground on a rickety ladder nailing shingles.

He bought the little house on 15^th Street in Antioch (where he lived until he was close to retirement), and eventually he decided it was not big enough for our growing family, so he doubled the floor space with his hammer (and a few other tools). He didn’t have the money to buy the materials, so he bought a WWII barracks , tore it down, and used the lumber he obtained to build up our house. See The Stoneman Summer on this blog (October 2009).

In that same blog entry, I have described his lifelong quest to help others with his considerable skills. In mortality, he was a true renaissance man. In the spirit world he can be no less. He was a great teacher, a stalwart in the Church (a bishop 3 times), a selfless giver of his time and talents, a painter and artist, a calligrapher (he taught himself to use speedball pens), a golden-gloves boxer, a master horseman, an excellent softball and basketball player, a great scoutmaster, a quiet and unassuming leader of men and a fairly lousy cook. (He once made macaroni with ketchup for us for dinner when mom was gone to camp.) All of this is better described in The Stoneman Summer (October 2009). I encourage you to re-read it,

My focus for this post is not on what he built with his hammer, but on the hammer itself as a symbol of a life well-lived; a life full of service and love for his family and those around him, fueled by his deep religious commitment to the doctrines and philosophies of the Church.

His hammer is on a shelf in my office. When I started thinking about this post, it occurred to me that perhaps his hammer deserved to be retired – at long last. So I went into the garage where it was on my workbench and brought it into my office and put it on the bookshelf.

Dad probably would not be very happy about that. He never regarded himself as someone to be venerated, least of all that his tools should be symbolic of anything. He was quiet, unassuming, and self-deprecating – a truly humble man. He would want the hammer to be on the workbench, ready for service. But when I picked it up to bring it in the house, I could almost feel his good right hand holding it with me. So it now occupies a place of honor.

In his book, Thy Kingdom Come, Elder Sterling W. Sill relates a story that perhaps describes dad:

An old legend tells of a man who interviewed some stone cutters who had different attitudes about their building efforts. To the first he said, "What are you doing?" The stone cutter said, "I am cutting stones. I work four hours in the morning and four hours in the afternoon. I am a stone cutter." To the second he said, "What are you doing?" He said, "I am cutting stones. I make four dollars in the morning and four dollars in the afternoon. I am a stone cutter." To the third he said, "What are you doing?" The third stone cutter stepped back to survey the rising walls and said, "I am building a cathedral."

I would not insult your intelligence by telling you that dad always had the big picture in mind when he did things. But he was a teacher – a man whose vocation in life was to help teenagers built their cathedral. He was a bishop, a man whose major responsibility was to help the members of his ward stay on the path to eternal life and their mansions in the Celestial kingdom. He regarded the red rock spires of Zion Park and Kolob as cathedrals – he painted them almost exclusively when he became an artist later in his life, and indeed, he told me that painting them was the reason he became an artist in the first place.

He had a hard time reaching me when I was a teenager. I know, now that I have my own children, that he went to bed many a night with a deep ache in his heart because of me. I seriously hope that I relieved his ache later in life with my changed conduct. Again in his book, Thy Kingdom Come, Elder Sterling W. Sill says:

Two of the most important questions that ever confront anyone are: What shall I do? And how shall I do it? It is interesting that so many of our most important activities are connected with those trades, businesses, and professions having to do with building things. We build homes, we build roads and bridges, we build pyramids, we build skyscrapers, we build sacred temples, we build character, and we build our own eternal futures. The most important thing that anyone ever builds is people.

Dad understood that. He answered those questions to his own satisfaction. He had a spiritual hammer – an inner voice – that guided him to those in need of his skills and capabilities. I was privileged to help him on some of the projects he undertook in Elva Hunt’s home. He gave considerable time and effort freely and without expectation, to remodel her kitchen and laundry room, among other things. He built things, but he built people too, certainly including me. In the Joseph Smith Translation of the bible, in Corinthians 3:9-10, 14, dad’s philosophy is described (although he would not have put it into these words):

For we are laborers together with God; ye are God's husbandry, ye are God's building.

According to the grace of God which is given unto me, as a wise master builder, I have laid the foundation, and another buildeth thereon. But let every man take heed how he buildeth thereupon.

If any man's work abide which he hath built thereupon, he shall receive a reward.

At dad’s funeral, someone remarked that he was probably in the spirit world remodeling Elva’s mansion, and anyone else’s who might need it. He was just that kind of guy.