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I watch as the men move about me. Their hands are callused from the work they do. The women who come to clean my altar have hands worn thin with wear. I consider the work they

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do. They toil in the field, turning the earth and planting seeds. In the woods the swing their axe against mighty trees. Their boats come together in the river to draw nets filled with fish. The mighty among them face the terror of the beasts and bring them back for food and clothing. In the home the meat is tenderized and cooked, the doe is kneaded and the butter churned, clothing is made and mended and the cleaning never stops. All this they do and give me their thanks.

I put

myself in their place to see the work for which they are thankful. The earth parts at the touch of my claws and holes open to receive the seed, hardwood splinters in my hand. By the strength of my arm I draw the nets alone and in the wood it is I the beasts fear. The tenderizing of the meat and the kneading of the doe are done with ease and the butter is churned without exhaustion.

I considered more of the work of their hands and saw their strength as they raised them against their enemy and their determination as they pass buckets of water against a fire. They show their skill in the workmanship of their metal, wood and stone and their tenderness in helping the sick.

For me their battles would be no struggle because no weapon of the enemy could hurt me and the bucket of water I could throw against the fire is greater by tenfold. The heated metal I deal with directly and elaborate carvings my claws make in the wood. The stone I do not change, its beauty I cannot increase. To the sick I lend my strength for their recovery.

But all this work is theirs and not mine. My own work is difficult indeed. I sit here and watch while they bring me food even though I do not hunger and they may starve. I listen to their cries for help concerning one precious to them; and though they are all precious to me, I must let them find the strength that is already theirs. I give comfort in the storm by not being moved by the dangers it brings. I sit in judgment of criminals who escape the law and accept the punishment the set for themselves. The warriors draw their courage from me and the farmer and hunter their hope when their skill must bring success.

This is my work, the toil of idol hands and struggle of the idol heart. I can no more do their work then they mine. Everyone is created for a purpose all his own; so each man must do his own work and in doing so he finds peace, joy and contentment of a like he could find in no other way.

More by davidc

• The Gargoyle – Wisdom of the Ages – October 25th, 2008
• how to get my ex girldriend back – October 25th, 2008
• The Gargoyle – Of Block and Tackle – October 25th, 2008
• The Gargoyle – Heart of Stone – October 25th, 2008