The Lost Pencil
(for Mark)
“Dad, why don’t you use a long pencil,” he said.
“That one’s so stubby and small.
You’ve got plenty of others to use instead.
Why that one, the shortest of all?”
He had entered my study to borrow a tie
very early one bright Sabbath day,
my twelve-year-old son to whom my reply
was a story, so I asked him to stay
and listen a spell, ’cause there was no hurry;
church wouldn’t begin for a while.
And as for the tie, why, he needn’t worry;
I had plenty, and all were in style.
My story begins in a land far away,
but this is no fable; you see,
it really did happen; so believe what I say.
It’s all true, and it happened to me.
I was traveling lost on an old country road
on a Sunday, but not like today;
it was raining and windy, and really quite cold
when I stopped at a village to pray
at a little white church with a sign by the door
that said all were welcome within.
So I wiped clean my shoes on a rug on the floor,
then opened the door and walked in.
Not a soul could be seen, but I knew from the smell
and the warmth from the stove in the hall
that the service that morning had gone very well,
but I’d missed it by moments, for all
had left the small chapel; not a lamb was in view
from the flock that had worshiped inside;
so I walked down the aisle and sat down on a pew
and observed my surroundings and tried
very hard to imagine just what kind of souls
were those who communed weekly there;
for one thing was certain, the folks on the roles
had maintained with great pride and care
their house of God, which, though simple and poor,
was painted, polished, and clean.
Not one piece of paper was left on the floor;
not one speck of dirt could be seen.
But as I observed, my admiring eyes stopped
at the end of the pew where I knelt,
where a stub of a pencil that someone had dropped
caused me pause in the marvel I’d felt.
Then I prayed to God and was quick to tell
that I did not deserve to be lost.
The business I’d come for had gone quite well,
but delays would increase the cost.
I had come to that land, so backward and poor.
I’d been willing to sacrifice
for my family to have just a little bit more.
I believed I had paid the price.
And now I was lost and had missed my plane,
but at least I had found a church
where I could stay and wait out the rain,
and then I’d resume my search.
I paused in my prayer, for I could not displace
the thought of the pencil still there;
so I got off my knees and looked for a place
to discard it and thus do my share
in keeping unblemished the house of the Lord.
I picked up the pencil, but paused
as the sound of rain through an open door poured.
A man entered, but fearing he’d caused
me some interruption, my pardon implored
and started to leave the nave.
I bade him return saying, “please be assured
God has room here for both souls to save.”
His smile and return made it obvious to me
I’d successfully broken the ice;
and as we conversed, it was clear that he
was no stranger to sacrifice.
His face was leathered and browned by the sun,
his hands hard and calloused by strife;
but the light in his eyes showed that pleasure and fun
and contentment were part of his life.
His clothing was simple, but clean and smart;
his manner was meek, but assured.
I sensed that his plebeian chest held a heart
where faith, hope, and virtue endured.
He again asked my pardon, expressing how he
was sorry to cause me delay.
He’d only come back to the chapel to see
if he’d dropped something there in his way.
Through a hole in his pocket, perhaps, somewhere,
it had fallen, and he had retraced
his steps, in the rain while searching with care,
and now hoped he’d only misplaced
it somewhere inside, through the chapel door.
I offered to help in his search.
“Just tell me the prize we are looking for,
and together we’ll scour the church.”
He smiled his thanks and, with pride in his eyes,
“It’s a pencil, my pencil,” he said.
“You’ve come back for a pencil?” I asked in surprise,
but wished I’d kept silent instead;
for I felt ashamed of the tone in my voice
and of what such a tone might convey.
But this humble man saw only cause to rejoice
that to help I was willing to stay.
“Why yes,” he replied, “It’s my only one,
and if it is lost, I fear
I must borrow the one I have saved for my son
who is starting in school this year.”
I gave him the pencil stub, still in my hand.
He thanked me profusely, but, oh,
I did not tell him how I had planned
to discard what he valued so.
Nor did I speak of the shame that was mine
nor the remorse that I felt inside.
Our encounter was surely for me God’s sign
to show me my own greed and pride.
I asked my new friend if he’d be so kind
to consider a gift exchange.
Puzzled, he asked what I had in mind.
I confessed, though it may have seemed strange,
that I’d like to take home as a souvenir
the pencil I’d found on the floor
to remind me of something I’d learned while there
that I should have learned long before.
His puzzled look was replaced by a grin.
He was quick to understand.
My topcoat contained two new pencils therein,
which I gave him, then shook his hand.
We said good-bye, and I, alone once more,
knelt down once again to pray;
but in place of my vain repetition before,
the Spirit now urged me to say,
“I thank Thee, dear Father, for pencils with lead,
for clothing to keep me warm,
for the food that I eat, and a roof o’er my head
that keeps me safe from the storm,
for all that I’ve taken for granted in life,
for my feet, and my strength to stand,
for obedient children, for a good loving wife,
and my chance to shake the hand
of a man who has taught me to hereafter be
humbly grateful and eager to give
all that I am able, and also to see
in others the way I should live.”
So I bring out the pencil stub each time I write
a check for my offerings and tithes.
I keep it here close to me, clearly in sight,
to remind me my sacrifice
is so little compared to what comes from above;
I’ve no shortage, no want, nor dearth.
He gives me my life and He gives me His love,
so ever much more than I’m worth.
This short pencil stub, till my life’s work is done,
for me a reminder will be;
and I hope that its story will be for my son
a lesson in humility.
“That one’s so stubby and small.
You’ve got plenty of others to use instead.
Why that one, the shortest of all?”
He had entered my study to borrow a tie
very early one bright Sabbath day,
my twelve-year-old son to whom my reply
was a story, so I asked him to stay
and listen a spell, ’cause there was no hurry;
church wouldn’t begin for a while.
And as for the tie, why, he needn’t worry;
I had plenty, and all were in style.
My story begins in a land far away,
but this is no fable; you see,
it really did happen; so believe what I say.
It’s all true, and it happened to me.
I was traveling lost on an old country road
on a Sunday, but not like today;
it was raining and windy, and really quite cold
when I stopped at a village to pray
at a little white church with a sign by the door
that said all were welcome within.
So I wiped clean my shoes on a rug on the floor,
then opened the door and walked in.
Not a soul could be seen, but I knew from the smell
and the warmth from the stove in the hall
that the service that morning had gone very well,
but I’d missed it by moments, for all
had left the small chapel; not a lamb was in view
from the flock that had worshiped inside;
so I walked down the aisle and sat down on a pew
and observed my surroundings and tried
very hard to imagine just what kind of souls
were those who communed weekly there;
for one thing was certain, the folks on the roles
had maintained with great pride and care
their house of God, which, though simple and poor,
was painted, polished, and clean.
Not one piece of paper was left on the floor;
not one speck of dirt could be seen.
But as I observed, my admiring eyes stopped
at the end of the pew where I knelt,
where a stub of a pencil that someone had dropped
caused me pause in the marvel I’d felt.
Then I prayed to God and was quick to tell
that I did not deserve to be lost.
The business I’d come for had gone quite well,
but delays would increase the cost.
I had come to that land, so backward and poor.
I’d been willing to sacrifice
for my family to have just a little bit more.
I believed I had paid the price.
And now I was lost and had missed my plane,
but at least I had found a church
where I could stay and wait out the rain,
and then I’d resume my search.
I paused in my prayer, for I could not displace
the thought of the pencil still there;
so I got off my knees and looked for a place
to discard it and thus do my share
in keeping unblemished the house of the Lord.
I picked up the pencil, but paused
as the sound of rain through an open door poured.
A man entered, but fearing he’d caused
me some interruption, my pardon implored
and started to leave the nave.
I bade him return saying, “please be assured
God has room here for both souls to save.”
His smile and return made it obvious to me
I’d successfully broken the ice;
and as we conversed, it was clear that he
was no stranger to sacrifice.
His face was leathered and browned by the sun,
his hands hard and calloused by strife;
but the light in his eyes showed that pleasure and fun
and contentment were part of his life.
His clothing was simple, but clean and smart;
his manner was meek, but assured.
I sensed that his plebeian chest held a heart
where faith, hope, and virtue endured.
He again asked my pardon, expressing how he
was sorry to cause me delay.
He’d only come back to the chapel to see
if he’d dropped something there in his way.
Through a hole in his pocket, perhaps, somewhere,
it had fallen, and he had retraced
his steps, in the rain while searching with care,
and now hoped he’d only misplaced
it somewhere inside, through the chapel door.
I offered to help in his search.
“Just tell me the prize we are looking for,
and together we’ll scour the church.”
He smiled his thanks and, with pride in his eyes,
“It’s a pencil, my pencil,” he said.
“You’ve come back for a pencil?” I asked in surprise,
but wished I’d kept silent instead;
for I felt ashamed of the tone in my voice
and of what such a tone might convey.
But this humble man saw only cause to rejoice
that to help I was willing to stay.
“Why yes,” he replied, “It’s my only one,
and if it is lost, I fear
I must borrow the one I have saved for my son
who is starting in school this year.”
I gave him the pencil stub, still in my hand.
He thanked me profusely, but, oh,
I did not tell him how I had planned
to discard what he valued so.
Nor did I speak of the shame that was mine
nor the remorse that I felt inside.
Our encounter was surely for me God’s sign
to show me my own greed and pride.
I asked my new friend if he’d be so kind
to consider a gift exchange.
Puzzled, he asked what I had in mind.
I confessed, though it may have seemed strange,
that I’d like to take home as a souvenir
the pencil I’d found on the floor
to remind me of something I’d learned while there
that I should have learned long before.
His puzzled look was replaced by a grin.
He was quick to understand.
My topcoat contained two new pencils therein,
which I gave him, then shook his hand.
We said good-bye, and I, alone once more,
knelt down once again to pray;
but in place of my vain repetition before,
the Spirit now urged me to say,
“I thank Thee, dear Father, for pencils with lead,
for clothing to keep me warm,
for the food that I eat, and a roof o’er my head
that keeps me safe from the storm,
for all that I’ve taken for granted in life,
for my feet, and my strength to stand,
for obedient children, for a good loving wife,
and my chance to shake the hand
of a man who has taught me to hereafter be
humbly grateful and eager to give
all that I am able, and also to see
in others the way I should live.”
So I bring out the pencil stub each time I write
a check for my offerings and tithes.
I keep it here close to me, clearly in sight,
to remind me my sacrifice
is so little compared to what comes from above;
I’ve no shortage, no want, nor dearth.
He gives me my life and He gives me His love,
so ever much more than I’m worth.
This short pencil stub, till my life’s work is done,
for me a reminder will be;
and I hope that its story will be for my son
a lesson in humility.
Poet‘s comments about “The Lost Pencil”
I’ve had the blessing and opportunity to live in and visit several countries, especially in South America. An extended summer vacation to Mexico when I was nine initiated my interest in Latino culture, and my church mission to Uruguay and Paraguay laid the foundation for my life-long love affair with Romance languages, cultures, and literatures. But it has always been the Latino people themselves that have taught me the most enduring and important lessons. The story of the lost pencil is my way of communicating one of those lessons.
