by Russell Moore
And he hears the sound of his pocketknife,
how years of grit, and sand, and soil, have found their
way into that place where the blade rests...
and have made it hiss when drawn...he looks at the dulled,
rusted blade, and wonders... why must blades shine?
Shining never brought a knife respect. Shining is a sign of
having never been needed. Shining meant that it had never been used.
But to be dulled, and grit-filled, and rusted,
that is the sign of having found a use...and the fact that he
still carries it, the token of appreciation for what it has done.
And he hears the sound of his pocketknife,
how years of grit, and sand, and soil, have found their
way into that place where the blade rests...
and have made it hiss when drawn...he looks at the dulled,
rusted blade, and wonders... why must blades shine?
Shining never brought a knife respect. Shining is a sign of
having never been needed. Shining meant that it had never been used.
But to be dulled, and grit-filled, and rusted,
that is the sign of having found a use...and the fact that he
still carries it, the token of appreciation for what it has done.
