deep within

The Wemmicks were small wooden people. Each of the wooden people was
carved by a woodworker named Eli. His workshop sat on a hill
overlooking their village.
Every Wemmick was different. Some had big noses, others had large
eyes. Some were tall and others were short. Some wore hats, others
wore coats. But all were made by the same carver and all lived in the
village.

And all day, every day, the Wemmicks did the same thing: They gave
each other stickers. Each Wemmick had a box of golden star stickers
and a box of gray dot stickers. Up and down the streets all over the
city, people could be seen sticking stars or dots on one
another.

The pretty ones, those with smooth wood and fine paint, always got
stars. But if the wood was rough or the paint chipped, the Wemmicks
gave dots. The talented ones got stars, too. Some could lift big
sticks high above their heads or jump over tall boxes. Still others
knew big words or could sing very pretty songs. Everyone gave them
stars. Some Wemmicks had stars all over them! Every time they got a
star it made them feel so good that they did something else and got
another star.

Others, though, could do little. They got dots. Punchinello was one of
these. He tried to jump high like the others, but he always fell. And
when he fell, the others would gather around and give him dots.
Sometimes when he fell, it would scar his wood, so the people would
give him more dots. He would try to explain why he fell and say
something silly, and the Wemmicks would give him more dots. After a
while he had so many dots that he didn’t want to go outside. He was
afraid he would do something dumb such as forget his hat or step in
the water, and then people would give him another dot. In fact, he had
so many gray dots that some people would come up and give him one
without reason. “He deserves lots of dots,” the wooden people would
agree with one another. “He’s not a good wooden person.”

After a while Punchinello believed them. “I’m not a good wemmick,” he
would say. The few times he went outside, he hung around other
Wemmicks who had a lot of dots. He felt better around them.

One day he met a Wemmick who was unlike any he’d ever met. She had no
dots or stars. She was just wooden. Her name was Lulia. It wasn’t that
people didn’t try to give her stickers; it’s just that the stickers
didn’t stick. Some admired Lulia for having no dots, so they would run
up and give her a star. But it would fall off. Some would look down on
her for having no stars, so they would give her a dot. But it wouldn’t
stay either.

‘That’s the way I want to be,’thought Punchinello. ‘I don’t want
anyone’s marks.’ So he asked the stickerless Wemmick how she did it.
“It’s easy,” Lulia replied. “every day I go see Eli.”

“Eli?” “Yes, Eli. The woodcarver. I sit in the workshop with him.”
“Why?”
“Why don’t you find out for yourself? Go up the hill. He’s there.”
And with that the Wemmick with no marks turned and skipped away.
“But he won’t want to see me!” Punchinello cried out.

Lulia didn’t hear. So Punchinello went home. He sat near a window and
watched the wooden people as they scurried around giving each other
stars and dots. “It’s not right,” he muttered to himself. And he
resolved to go see Eli.

He walked up the narrow path to the top of the hill and stepped into
the big shop. His wooden eyes widened at the size of everything. The
stool was as tall as he was. He had to stretch on his tiptoes to see
the top of the workbench. A hammer was as long as his arm.
Punchinello swallowed hard. “I’m not staying here!” and he turned to leave.

Then he heard his name.
“Punchinello?” The voice was deep and strong. Punchinello stopped.
“Punchinello! How good to see you. Come and let me have a look at you.”

Punchinello turned slowly and looked at the large bearded craftsman.
“You know my name?” the little Wemmick asked.
“Of course I do. I made you.” Eli stooped down and picked him up and
set him on the bench.
“Hmm,” the maker spoke thoughtfully as he inspected the gray circles.
“Looks like you’ve been given some bad marks.”

“I didn’t mean to, Eli. I really tried hard!” Cried Punchinello. “Oh,
you don’t have to defend yourself to me, child. I don’t care what the
other Wemmicks think.”
“You don’t?”
“No, and you shouldn’t either. Who are they to give stars or dots?
They’re Wemmicks just like you. What they think doesn’t matter,
Punchinello. All that
matters is what I think. And I think you are pretty special.”

Punchinello laughed. “Me, special? Why? I can’t walk fast. I can’t
jump. My paint is peeling. Why do I matter to you?”

Eli looked at Punchinello, put his hands on those small wooden
shoulders, and spoke very slowly. “Because you’re mine. That’s why you
matter to me.”

Punchinello had never had anyone look at him like this–much less his
maker. He didn’t know what to say.

“Every day I’ve been hoping you’d come,” Eli explained.
“I came because I met someone who had no marks.”
“I know. She told me about you.”
“Why don’t the stickers stay on her?”
“Because she has decided that what I think is more important than what
they think. The stickers only stick if you let them.”

“What?”
“The stickers only stick if they matter to you. The more you trust my
love, the less you care about the stickers.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” Said Punchinello.

“You will, but it will take time. You’ve got a lot of
marks. For now, just come to see me every day and let me remind you
how much I care.” Eli lifted Punchinello off the bench and set him on
the ground.

“Remember,” Eli said as the Wemmick walked out the door. “You are
special because I made you. And I don’t make mistakes.”

Punchinello didn’t stop, but in his heart he thought, “I think he
really means it.” And when he did, a dot fell to the ground.

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With the Love of God; Life is like a bed of Roses; Beautiful even with
the Thorns…….
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Happy Valentine’s Day!