Moving Bricks
The weight of straw is measured in time, not density.
When I was a little boy, I remember my dad working in the yard. And like all little boys do, I wanted to imitate him. So I hovered nearby, doing this or that—picking up sticks, pretending they were tools, whatever felt close enough to helping.
Occasionally he’d let me put something away or explain a simple task he was doing.
One time, I remember telling him I wanted to help. I don’t recall what he was actually working on, but it was probably beyond what a five-year-old could meaningfully participate in. Instead, he showed me a pile of bricks—about three feet square and two feet tall. A large stack for a small boy.
“I need you to move these bricks from right here to over there.” He pointed to a spot on the other side of the yard.
The bricks were heavy. Dirty. Sometimes scary. Wolf spiders loved to hide in the cool, dark gaps. And while they’re largely harmless and good for the environment, they are absolute monsters to a child. Add to that the wide variety of other creepy crawlies that make brick stacks their home.
It was, essentially, a high-rise for little-boy terrors.
But it was something my father had asked me to do, and I wanted to do my best. So all day long, I dutifully moved bricks from one spot to another. I learned that if I carried three at a time, it meant fewer trips but more effort. That if I wasn’t careful, bricks could be dropped and broken.
By the end of the day, the task was complete. The pile had been moved and stacked more neatly than it had been before.
The next day, my dad told me how proud he was of the job I’d done. I listened, beaming. Then I asked what else I could do.
He explained that he needed the bricks moved again.
So I spent a second day happily being the dutiful, useful son. I didn’t complain. The idea of resentment never entered my mind. I was doing exactly what I had asked to do: helping my dad.
On the third day, I moved the bricks back to their original location. It was then that I grew suspicious my work was less helpful than I had imagined.
I didn’t ask to help a fourth time.
Life feels this way sometimes.
All I’ve ever wanted is to be helpful—to be useful to my Creator. But much of my life has felt like moving bricks.
And I have been the dutiful son. I learned to love the bricks. To understand the nuance of their texture, color, and weight. How different manufacturers vary slightly on the theme of what a brick is.
But for a long, long time now, I’ve known the score.
Still, I tried never to question the ask. If Jehovah needed me—no matter the mundanity or the absurdity—I showed up and did the work.
Day after day.
I’m waking up to day four. And honestly, I’m wondering how much longer I’ll be asked to move these bricks.
Some days, I am the man who understands that the bricks of my life need caring hands and gentle transfer. That they deserve to be seen, supported, and placed somewhere solid and safe. That having the privilege of doing so is rare and meaningful.
And some days—
I’m just a little boy
tired of moving bricks.
WolfCast Home Page – Listen, follow, subscribe
Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
— Go back home and read MORE by Wolf Inwool
— Visit the archive
I welcome feedback at my inbox
