The Nail
It was an annular ringed nail made to be driven into wood
by a nailing machine and to stay there forever. That is what
the rings were for. Once in place, it took superhuman
strength to remove it. But then, our job at the old textile
mill was putting them in, not taking them out.
The pallet making shop was four times as long as it was wide
and had a pallet manufacturing line at either side close to
the side walls. Hoppers on top of each nailing machine held
the nails that were fed down through tubes to the nailing
heads. From time to time, one of the crew went aloft to
empty boxes of three-inch long annular ringed nails into the
hopper to keep the supply stocked. Occasionally, a few nails
would spill over the sides of the steel hoppers as they were
being emptied, landing on the floor to be swept up at the
close of each day's operations. It was commonplace to have
nails kicking around the floor and no one paid any mind to
them.
On the day I found the nail I was working at the back of the
machine, pulling the half-made pallets through to the
turnover element before sending them down to have their tops
fitted and nailed. I needed to go for a drink, or something
equally trivial, and asked one of the team to cover for me.
Then I jumped down from the staging on which we worked on
the assembly lines, and that's when I found the nail.
At first it didn't register what had happened, but a moment
later it was obvious that against all the odds, one of the
spilled nails had landed on its head and stood there just
the right distance away from the staging for my right boot
to find it when I jumped off.
I felt a bit sick when I saw the point of the nail sticking
through the toe cap of my boot and knew that I had been
nailed good and proper. I was still feeling a bit sick when
my workmates carried me into the supervisor's office and
laid me out on the desk. Someone had notified the work's
First Aid man who arrived breathless and asked for a claw
hammer. I had already tried to remove the nail by hand and
the resultant pain left me in no doubt that it was not of a
mind to be taken out without some of the brute force that it
took to drive it in. I explained to the First Aid man that
if he touched my foot at all, never mind with a claw hammer,
he would be on the desk next to me with someone trying to
pull my other boot out of his face. And he understood!
So, I was consigned to Oldham general Hospital in an
ambulance where, because I had had a drink of orange juice
at ten that morning, I had to wait in casualty in a
wheelchair with my bad foot cradled across my good one with
the nail sticking up like Blackpool Tower, attracting wry
comments from other patients and visitors.
My wait was of four hours duration because the physicians
wisely decided that I would need a general anaesthetic
before they could pull the nail out of my foot. At the
examination immediately prior to the general anaesthetic,
the kindly physician, an Indian, was reaching for the nail
head with his finger and thumb. Before he could touch the
piercer, I placed my hand around his windpipe and smiled at
him, saying gently, "We are not going to hurt each other,
are we?" And he understood!
I awoke on the table, minus boot, and minus the nail. They
had already discarded the nail and I did not need a
souvenir. I felt drunk and could not stop laughing for about
ten minutes, after which they declared me ready for
discharge, having dressed the wounds, one on top and one
underneath my foot a little way back from where the toes
join the foot. It remained sore for a few days before the
pain subsided, and the holes healed well, leaving small
scars that have faded into nothing with the passing of the
years. Only a faint memory remains and I hardly think about
that event now – except at Easter.
Then it is that I am reminded that the Romans did not have
the luxury of one eight of an inch diameter annular ringed
nails, but crude shafts beaten from iron by a blacksmith:
heavy square things with broad blunt heads that were made to
fix heavy timbers in place; wedge-shaped things with sharp
edges that tore into flesh when driven through human hands
and feet, and hurt not one whit less when that flesh was
both human and divine.
Sometimes I remember that no one suffered more keenly the
anguish of the driving of the nails through his hands and
feet than Christ did, and yet he murmured not, and I am
ashamed because of my all-too-human murmurings when my pain
was so small, and His so great, even unto death.
Then, I understand a little better than once I did, how it
was love that kept Jesus fastened on the cross and not the
pitiless nails, and I feel ashamed because I complained
about one little one, and feel ashamed to think that
sometimes I forget the nails he bore in his flesh because of
His love for me; and in such moments or remembering the
recollection of his words floods into my mind like
Spirit-borne light, bringing a new and more profound
realisation of what He meant when He said,
The Lord your Redeemer suffered death in the flesh;
wherefore he suffered the pain of all men,
that all men might repent and come unto him
Then the soaring words of the prophet Isaiah stir in my
heart:
He was wounded for our transgressions,
he was bruised for our iniquities:
the chastisement of our peace was upon him;
and with his stripes we are healed
Then I am healed again through His suffering,
and know His peace – and then I understand!
Ronnie Bray Copyright © 2001 All Rights Reserved
Quill@libby.org
Ronnie and his wife Gay are transplants to Montana from
England, after serving a church mission together in
Tennessee. Ronnie has been writing for 2TheHeart for many
years and is a favorite among our readers! You can find his
writing in the new 2theheart book (www.cafepress.com/2theheart
) and on Ronnie's web page:
http://www.2theheart.com/author_ronnie_bray