Happy Sabbath, Church Family!
There’s a story of a violin maker who lived in a quiet mountain town. His workshop was small, filled with the scent of wood shavings and varnish, and lined with instruments in various stages of completion. People would travel from far away to purchase his violins, not because they were the most ornate, but because of the richness of their sound.
One day, a young apprentice came to learn from him. Eager and observant, he quickly noticed something that didn’t seem to make sense. In a corner of the workshop lay a stack of wood: rough, knotted, and marked with imperfections. It didn’t look like the kind of material you would use for fine instruments.
“Why keep that?” the apprentice asked. “Surely the best violins should come from the best wood, smooth, flawless, perfect.” The old craftsman smiled but said nothing. Instead, he handed the apprentice a piece from the pile and said, “Work with this.”
The apprentice hesitated but obeyed. The wood was difficult. It resisted his tools, forced him to slow down, to pay attention, to adjust his technique. It took longer than he expected, and more than once he wanted to give up and reach for an easier piece. But under the careful guidance of the master, something began to take shape.
Weeks later, the violin was finished. It didn’t look dramatically different from the others—but when the craftsman lifted it and drew the bow across its strings, the room seemed to pause. The sound was deep, warm, and full, carrying a resonance that lingered in the air.
The apprentice looked surprised. “How is that possible?” he asked. “That wood was full of flaws.” The craftsman gently turned the instrument in his hands. “It is precisely those tensions, those irregularities, that give it its depth. Wood that has endured strain often carries a richer voice.”
There’s something deeply human about that.
We often wish for a life that is smooth and uncomplicated. We pray for ease, for clarity, for circumstances that don’t stretch us too far. And yet, so much of what shapes us and deepens us, comes through the very things we would not have chosen.
The challenges we face, the questions we wrestle with, the seasons that require patience or endurance, these are not interruptions to our formation. They are part of it. Scripture speaks often of this kind of shaping. As purpose. As intentional work.
As a process through which God forms within us a deeper faith, a resilient hope, and a compassionate heart.
As a church, it can be tempting to celebrate only the polished parts of our lives—the victories, the clarity, the strength. But perhaps what God values just as much are the quieter stories: the perseverance, the growth that happens beneath the surface, the faith that holds on even when things are uncertain.
So this Sabbath, instead of asking God to remove every difficulty, perhaps we come with a different prayer: “Lord, stay with me in the shaping.”
Bring Him the parts of your life that feel resistant. The areas that seem unfinished. The tensions you do not quite understand. Place them into His hands. Because the invitation of the gospel is that God meets us in the middle of the process working patiently, faithfully, lovingly. And over time, often quietly, He draws from our lives a depth we did not know was possible.
“And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.” Philippians 1:6.
With blessings, Malin Andersen
