The Trouble Nail
(for Mark)
They’re tearing down to build a mall
the little house where I grew tall.
Before tomorrow’s wrecking crew,
tonight there’s something I must do.
Here, from the lintel over the door
protrudes a nail, an inch, no more,
a large nail, twenty pennyweight,
despite the years, still strong and straight.
My father put it there the day
he with his bride moved in to stay
and raise five kids, their pride and joy,
four girls and me, their only boy.
With care so as to save the head,
the crowbar on the shank instead,
applying pressure steadily,
with muscles tensed, I pull it free.
I’ll take it now with similar care
and nail it to the lintel where
my wife and I and child to be
will live and be a family.
I know your curiosity
has kept you listening to me.
If you’ll be patient, I’ll now tell
the meaning of this rusty nail.
My Dad was neither rich nor poor,
but earned a wage like thousands more;
and there were years when times were good,
but there were also times he stood
in crowded unemployment queues
and knew the woes and felt the rues
for failing in the world to gain
Babel’s form of wealth and fame.
Though disappointment, doubt, and strain,
and work-day setbacks caused him pain,
within his home, he did not fail;
you see, Dad had a trouble nail.
Each evening with the setting sun,
with that day’s trials and labor done,
he’d briefly pause, ere going in
the house, his ritual to begin.
Straight at the lintel nail he’d stare,
then raise both arms into the air,
and mime as if thereon to snag
upon the nail some pouch or bag.
And then his head he’d humbly bow
before his Lord and firmly vow
that with His aid he would prevail
and leave his troubles on that nail.
He’d leave them there with no regret,
resolved, determined to forget
the outside world with all its powers;
once past the nail, our Dad was ours:
ours to tell our sorrows to,
ours to share our dreams come true,
there to listen to us read,
there to gently intercede
when sibling tiffs required a judge,
to help us eat our mother’s fudge,
to teach us values, how to play,
how to work, and how to pray.
So every day Dad’s troubled frown,
once past the nail, turned upside down;
and we, waiting inside for him,
received with joy our father’s grin.
With all his troubles safe outside,
he gave his kids, his joy and pride,
our self esteem and sense of worth.
Home was our heaven here on earth.
It’s not that we were unaware
of all the trials he’d never share.
Our mom made sure her children knew
to credit give where it was due.
The love they shared, for us, became
the honor of our family name.
The two of them worked as a team,
pursuing their celestial dream.
With all their children tucked in bed
and stories either told or read,
together they would plan and pray,
resolved to keep the world at bay;
for no success could compensate
if they at home could not create
a place much like our home above,
where souls could grow in faith and love.
When cancer took my mother’s health,
and medicines what little wealth
Dad managed through his sweat to gain,
the trouble nail endured the strain;
and when our mother passed away,
upon the nail, that mournful day,
his grief and sorrow gently hung,
another burden left unsung.
The standard of the world may call
my sister’s dowry rather small.
Yet love expressed through sacrifice
gave each a pearl of wondrous price.
My older sisters love the Lord:
their lives, my parents’ grand reward.
One sister strayed, but since returned
to live again the truths she’d learned.
And I, the youngest, now prepare
my parents’ legacy to bear.
The fact we all turned out so well
we owe to Father’s trouble nail.
the little house where I grew tall.
Before tomorrow’s wrecking crew,
tonight there’s something I must do.
Here, from the lintel over the door
protrudes a nail, an inch, no more,
a large nail, twenty pennyweight,
despite the years, still strong and straight.
My father put it there the day
he with his bride moved in to stay
and raise five kids, their pride and joy,
four girls and me, their only boy.
With care so as to save the head,
the crowbar on the shank instead,
applying pressure steadily,
with muscles tensed, I pull it free.
I’ll take it now with similar care
and nail it to the lintel where
my wife and I and child to be
will live and be a family.
I know your curiosity
has kept you listening to me.
If you’ll be patient, I’ll now tell
the meaning of this rusty nail.
My Dad was neither rich nor poor,
but earned a wage like thousands more;
and there were years when times were good,
but there were also times he stood
in crowded unemployment queues
and knew the woes and felt the rues
for failing in the world to gain
Babel’s form of wealth and fame.
Though disappointment, doubt, and strain,
and work-day setbacks caused him pain,
within his home, he did not fail;
you see, Dad had a trouble nail.
Each evening with the setting sun,
with that day’s trials and labor done,
he’d briefly pause, ere going in
the house, his ritual to begin.
Straight at the lintel nail he’d stare,
then raise both arms into the air,
and mime as if thereon to snag
upon the nail some pouch or bag.
And then his head he’d humbly bow
before his Lord and firmly vow
that with His aid he would prevail
and leave his troubles on that nail.
He’d leave them there with no regret,
resolved, determined to forget
the outside world with all its powers;
once past the nail, our Dad was ours:
ours to tell our sorrows to,
ours to share our dreams come true,
there to listen to us read,
there to gently intercede
when sibling tiffs required a judge,
to help us eat our mother’s fudge,
to teach us values, how to play,
how to work, and how to pray.
So every day Dad’s troubled frown,
once past the nail, turned upside down;
and we, waiting inside for him,
received with joy our father’s grin.
With all his troubles safe outside,
he gave his kids, his joy and pride,
our self esteem and sense of worth.
Home was our heaven here on earth.
It’s not that we were unaware
of all the trials he’d never share.
Our mom made sure her children knew
to credit give where it was due.
The love they shared, for us, became
the honor of our family name.
The two of them worked as a team,
pursuing their celestial dream.
With all their children tucked in bed
and stories either told or read,
together they would plan and pray,
resolved to keep the world at bay;
for no success could compensate
if they at home could not create
a place much like our home above,
where souls could grow in faith and love.
When cancer took my mother’s health,
and medicines what little wealth
Dad managed through his sweat to gain,
the trouble nail endured the strain;
and when our mother passed away,
upon the nail, that mournful day,
his grief and sorrow gently hung,
another burden left unsung.
The standard of the world may call
my sister’s dowry rather small.
Yet love expressed through sacrifice
gave each a pearl of wondrous price.
My older sisters love the Lord:
their lives, my parents’ grand reward.
One sister strayed, but since returned
to live again the truths she’d learned.
And I, the youngest, now prepare
my parents’ legacy to bear.
The fact we all turned out so well
we owe to Father’s trouble nail.
Poet‘s comments about “The Trouble Nail”
I’ve heard the anecdote of the Trouble Nail (the Trouble Tree is similar) several times in church lessons or talks from the pulpit. One of those times was several years ago in a sacrament meeting. I was then a young father of four children who was working full-time, going to school full-time, and trying to magnify my church calling as a counselor in a bishopric. Given the challenges of my circumstances, my mind was fertile ground for its message. I embraced that message and made a promise to myself and to God that I would live the principle that the anecdote so well illustrated. Years later, as I completed my first poem, “The Willow Switch,” and my mind searched for ideas for other poems, the story of the Trouble Nail returned to me. I hope my version will encourage my son and the other young fathers (or potential fathers) who read it to make and keep the same promise.
