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I am going combine three separate articles from Max Lucado that come together
with such ease and compliment each other: "The Blacksmith's Shop", "On The
Anvil," and "Anvil Time." Please read on:

In the shop of a blacksmith, there are three types of tools. There are
tools on the junk pile: outdated, broken, dull, rusty.

They sit in the cobwebbed corner, useless to their master, oblivious to
their calling.

There are tools on the anvil: melted down, molten hot, moldable,
changeable.

They lie on the anvil, being shaped by their master, accepting their
calling.

There are tools of usefulness: sharpened, primed, defined, mobile.

They lie ready in the blacksmith's tool chest, available to their master,
fulfilling their calling.

Some people lie useless: lives broken, talents wasting, fires quenched,
dreams dashed.

They are tossed in with the scrap iron, in desperate need of repair, with
no notion of purpose.

Others lie on the anvil: hearts open, hungry to change, wounds healing,
visions clearing.

They welcome the painful pounding of the blacksmith's hammer, longing to be
rebuilt, begging to be called.

Others lie in their Master's hands: well tuned, uncompromised, polished,
productive.

They respond to their Master's forearm, demanding nothing, surrendering all.

We are all somewhere in the blacksmith's shop. We are either on the scrap
pile, in the Master's hand on the anvil, or in the tool chest. (Some of us
have been in all three.)

From the shelves to the workbench, from the water to the fire. I'm sure
that somewhere you will see yourself.

Paul spoke of becoming "an instrument for noble purposes." And what a
becoming it is! The rubbish pile of broken tools, the anvil of recasting,
the hands of the Master - it's a simultaneously joyful and painful voyage.

And for you who make the journey - who leave the heap and enter the fire,
dare to be pounded on God's anvil, and doggedly seek to discover your own
purpose - take courgae, for you await the privilege of being called "God's
chosen instruments."


With a strong forearm, the apron-clad blacksmith puts his tongs into the
fire, grasps the heated metal, and places it on the anvil. His keen eye
examines the glowing piece. He sees what the tool is now and envisions
what he wants it to be - sharper, flatter, wider, longer. With a clear
picture in his mind, he begins to pound. His left hand still clutching the
hot mass with the tongs, his right hand slams the two-pound sledge upon
the moldable metal.

On the solid anvil, the smoldering iron is remolded.

The smith knows the type of instrument he wants. He knows the size. He
knows the shape, He knows the strength.

'Whang! Whang! The hammer slams. The shop rings with the noise,
the air fills with smoke, and the softened metal responds.

But the response doesn't come easily. It doesn't come without discomfort.
To melt down the old and recast it as new is a disrupting process. Yet the
metal remains on the anvil, allowing the toolmaker to remove the scars,
repair the cracks, refill the voids, and purge the impurities.

And with time, a change occurs: What was dull becomes sharpened, what was
crooked becomes straight, what was weak becomes strong, and what was
useless becomes valuable.

Then the blacksmith stops. He ceases his pounding and sets down his
hammer. With a strong left arm, he lifts the tongs until the freshly
molded metal is at eye level. In the still silence, he examines the
smoking tool. The incandescent implement is rotated and examined for any
mars or cracks.

There are none.

Now the smith enters the final stage of his task. He plunges the
smoldering tool into a nearby bucket of water. With a hiss and a rush of
steam, the metal immediately begins to harden. The heat surrenders to the
onslaught of cool water, and the pliable, soft mineral becomes an unbending
useful tool.

"For a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of
trials. These have come so that your faith - of greater worth than gold,
which perishes even though refined by fire - may be proved genuine and many
result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed."
(1 Peter 1:6-7)


On God's anvil. Perhaps you've been there.

Melted down. Formless. Undone. Placed on the anvil for reshaping?
(A few rough edges too many.) Discipline? (A good father disciplines.)
Testing? (But why so hard?)

I know I've been on it. It's rough. It's a spiritual slump, a famine.
The fires goes out. Although the fire may flame for a moment, it soon
disappears. We drift downward. Downward into the foggy valley of
question, the misty lowland of discouragement. Motivation wanes. Desire
is distant. Responsibilities are depressing.

Passion? It slips out the door.
Enthusiasm? Are you kidding?
Anvil time.

It can be caused by a death, a breakup, going broke, going prayerless. The
light switch is flipped off and the room darkens. "All the thoughtful
words of help and hope have all been nicely said. But I'm still hurting,
wondering..."

On the anvil.

Brought face to face with God out of the utter realization that we have
nowhere else to go. Jesus in the garden. Peter with a tear-streaked
face. David after Bathsheba. Elijah and the "still, small voice."
Paul, blind in Damascus.

Pound, pound, pound.

I hope you're jot on the anvil. (Unless you need to be, and of so, I hope
you are.) Anvil time is not to be avoided, it's to be experienced.
although the tunnel is dark, it does go through the mountain. Anvil time
reminds us of who we are and who God is. We shouldn't try to escape it.
To escape it could be to escape God.

God sees our life from beginning to end. He may lead us through a storm at
age thirty so we can endure a hurricane at age sixty. An instrument is
useful only if it's in the right shape. A dull ax or bent screwdriver
need attention, and so do we. A good blacksmith keeps his tools in shape.
So does God.

Should God place you on His anvil, be thankful. It means He thinks
you're still worth reshaping.


~© - 1985,2008~

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Edited and Updated: April 23, 2008