I find it hard to think about the work today. Chisel on the table, neglected order on the shelf. Today is a dreadful day. As if the hunger and this bloody winter aren’t enough.
They’ve captured the woman who saved my son. We kept our mouths shut, but the neighbors are petrified by that new proclamation. Always watching their own back, certain that betraying others will save their skin one day, or secure a place in Heaven (which is promised to them – and if not, they will buy it, there’s always money for that). They stick their filthy noses over the fence, watching, memorizing, whispering, running to church, confessing someone else’s sins for a crust of bread. They couldn’t wait for my son to get better, to blame everything on her.
It is true, she was here one day and yes, my dear boy is getting better from her herbs, I know he is. And I know she is on trial for it tomorrow, but, God forgive me, I am not sorry. If she’s smart she will confess, repent and be on her way. If not, my soul bears no burden. My boy is what matters, not her…
But I can’t think about the work. Everything is nearly finished. Only the face remains to be carved. That is my favorite part. Steady gaze of my Lord slowly appearing from the wood, watching me gently, comforting me. And today, I can’t even get started. Retribution, that is my greatest fear. His retribution. But the customer awaits, and the children are hungry. I have to let it go. Let her burn. I won’t even go to see it.