Good
judgment requires a broad picture. Not only is that true in purchasing houses,
cars, and books, it’s true in evaluating life. One failure doesn’t make a
person a failure; one achievement doesn’t make a person a success.
“The
end of the matter is better than it’s beginning,”1 penned the sage.
“Be…patient
in affliction,”2 echoed the apostle
Paul.
“Don’t
judge a phrase by one word,” stated the woodcutter.
The
woodcutter? Oh, you may not know him. Let me present him to you.
I
met him in Brazil. He was introduced to me by a friend who knew that I needed
patience. Denalyn and I were six months into a five-year stint in Brazil, and I
was frustrated. My fascination with Rio de Janeiro had turned into exasperation
with words. I couldn’t speak and a culture I didn’t understand.
“Tenha
Paciência,” Maria would tell me. “Just be patient.” She was my Portuguese
instructor. But, more than that, she was a calm voice in a noisy storm. With
maternal persistence, she corrected my pronunciation and helped me to love her
homeland.
Once,
in the midst of a frustrating week of trying to get our goods out of customs
(which eventually took three months), she gave me this story as a homework
assignment. It helped my attitude far more than it helped my Portuguese.
It’s
a simple fable. Yet for those of us who try to pass judgment on life with only
one day’s evidence, the message is profound. I’ve done nothing to embellish it;
I’ve only translated it. I pray that it will remind you, as it did me, that patience
is the greater courage.
Once
there was an old man who lived in a tiny village. Although poor, he was envied
by all, for he owned a beautiful white horse. Even the king coveted his
treasure. A horse like this had never been seen before—such was its splendor,
its majesty, its strength.
People
offered fabulous prices for the steed, but the old man always refused. “This
horse is not a horse to me,” he would tell them. “It is a person. How could you
sell a person? He is a friend, not a possession. How could you sell a friend?”
The man was poor and the temptation was great. But he never sold the horse.
One
morning he found that the horse was not in the stable. All the village came to
see him. “You old fool,” they scoffed, “we told you that someone would steal
your horse. We warned you that you would be robbed. You are so poor. How could
you ever hope to protect such a valuable animal? It would have been better to
have sold him. You could have gotten whatever price you wanted. No amount would
have been too high. Now the horse is gone, and you’ve been cursed with
misfortune.”
The
old man responded, “Don’t speak too quickly. Say only that the horse is not in
the stable. That is all we know; the rest is judgment. If I’ve been cursed or
not, how can you know? How can you judge?”
The
people contested, “Don’t make us out to be fools! We may not be philosophers,
but great philosophy is not needed. The simple fact that your horse is gone is
a curse.”
The
old man spoke again. “All I know is that the stable is empty, and the horse is
gone. The rest I don’t know. Whether it be a curse or a blessing, I can’t say.
All we can see is a fragment. Who can say what will come next?”
The
people of the village laughed. They thought that the man was crazy. They had
always thought he was fool; if he wasn’t, he would have sold the horse and
lived off the money. But instead, he was a poor woodcutter, an old man still
cutting firewood and dragging it out of the forest and selling it. He lived
hand to mouth in the misery of poverty. Now he had proven that he was, indeed,
a fool.
After
fifteen days, the horse returned. He hadn’t been stolen; he had run away into
the forest. Not only had he returned, he had brought a dozen wild horses with
him. Once again the village people gathered around the woodcutter and spoke.
“Old man, you were right and we were wrong. What we thought was a curse was a
blessing. Please forgive us.”
The
man responded, “Once again, you go too far. Say only that the horse is back.
State only that a dozen horses returned with him, but don’t judge. How do you
know if this is a blessing or not? You see only a fragment. Unless you know the
whole story, how can you judge? You read only one page of a book. Can you judge
the whole book? You read only one word of a phrase. Can you understand the
entire phrase?
“Life
is so vast, yet you judge all of life with one page or one word. All you have
is a fragment! Don’t say that this is a blessing. No one knows. I am content
with what I know. I am not perturbed by what I don’t.”
“Maybe
the old man is right,” they said to one another. So they said little. But down
deep, they knew he was wrong. They knew it was a blessing. Twelve wild horses
had returned with one horse. With a little bit of work, the animals could be
broken and trained and sold for much money.
The
old man had a son, an only son. The young man began to break the wild horses.
After a few days, he fell from one of the horses and broke both legs. Once
again the villagers gathered around the old man and cast their judgments.
“You
were right,” they said. “You proved you were right. The dozen horses were not a
blessing. They were a curse. Your only son has broken his legs, and now in your
old age you have no one to help you. Now you are poorer than ever.”
The
old man spoke again. “You people are obsessed with judging. Don’t go so far.
Say only that my son broke his legs. Who knows if it is a blessing or a curse?
No one knows. We only have a fragment. Life comes in fragments.”
It
so happened that a few weeks later the country engaged in war against a
neighboring country. All the young men of the village were required to join the
army. Only the son of the old man was excluded, because he was injured. Once
again the people gathered around the old man, crying and screaming because
their sons had been taken. There was little chance that they would return. The
enemy was strong, and the war would be a losing struggle. They would never see
their sons again.
“You
were right, old man,” they wept. “God knows you were right. This proves it.
Yours son’s accident was a blessing. His legs may be broken, but at least he is
with you. Our sons are gone forever.”
The
old man spoke again. “It is impossible to talk with you. You always draw
conclusions. No one knows. Say only this: Your sons had to go to war, and mine
did not. No one knows if it is a blessing or a curse. No one is wise enough to
know. Only God knows.”
The
old man was right. We only have a fragment. Life’s mishaps and horrors are only
a page out of a grand book. We must be slow about drawing conclusions. We must
reserve judgment on life’s storms until we know the whole story.
I
don’t know where the woodcutter learned his patience. Perhaps from another
woodcutter in Galilee. For it was the Carpenter who said it best:
“Do
not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.”3
He
should know. He is the author of our story. And he has already written the
final chapter.
