The Village Blacksmith

Our church provides a meal on Wednesday nights. One Wednesday night a few years back I was feeling rather sorry for myself when I arrived to have dinner. I walked in with a smile on my face and a frown in my heart. You know, a real good pity party…all by myself and no one to sit with…another meal eaten alone…
Then I saw them: two ladies I had seen many times. I paid for my meal, walked over to where they were sitting and asked if I could join them. They smiled and welcomed me at their table and into their hearts.

This is one of Mary’s many stories. Betty’s story is for another time.

I will never forget that first time I ate with Mary. Mary was so friendly and did she like to talk! She is 82 years young and has had a wonderful life. Mary grew up in southern Oklahoma in a tiny little town and has told me many stories of her “growing up years.” On this first night she mentioned her daddy. I asked her, “What did your daddy do for a living?” She said, “He was the blacksmith.” I gasped, “The village blacksmith!” She looked at me and said, “Yes, he was.” I then replied, “My goodness Mary, he must have been strong!” She got a twinkle in her eye and a chuckle in her voice and said, “Yes, yes, I guess he was the strongest man in town!”
I started quoting the first stanza of Longfellow’s poem to her and she knowingly smiled. I left that night with a smile on my face, a smile in my heart and thankfulness to God for sending me just what I needed!

We girls always sit together now; they have taken me into their group. I wouldn’t give up those friendships for anything.

So, here is the poem that I made all three boys memorize as small children. I never would have imagined that the poem would years later be one of the links to a dear friendship.

The Village Blacksmith
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his haul, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.