They had all come for one purpose; to learn how to craft a wooden self-bow; a truly Native American bow carved from one stave of ash or hackberry wood. My good friend and superb instructor, Paul Speral and I were hoping that in eight hours, each man could go home carrying their own hand-crafted and fully lethal bow. Each man sat atop a bow-horse, hand crafted by four of our church’s Helping Hands retired men’s group, shaving and shaping sliver by sliver.
But these bow builders were no ordinary men. These men, twelve strong you might say, were Wounded Warriors. They had served our country faithfully in Iraq or Afghanistan and been wounded in combat. And now the Wounded Warrior Project (WWP) was coordinating various outreach programs and activities for these veterans.
The local WWP coordinator Dave Colemer, had come to me months before hearing that our church had done some unique and weird ministries that men might enjoy. We had lunch, and in my excitement, I rattled off a dozen of ideas ranging from canoe building, to canoe trips, to retreats, to flintknapping, to pig roasts and then we settled on building bows. Within a day of advertising the event, over 20 men had signed up. We chose 12 for our first experience.
So here we gathered in my driveway and yard on a beautiful spring day in May for fellowship via the art of crafting a bow. Each man seemed genuinely delighted and grateful to be here as sweat beaded on foreheads and furrowed brows displayed complete focus of attention to their new task. Paul and I tag-teamed going from man to man, assisting, helping, commenting, cheering on, measuring, testing poundage on the scale and showing them how to properly tiller their bows, making each limb bend symmetrically and equally. A true sense of comradery and fellowship began to grow and flourish.
When guys grew weary of the hard work of carving, we provided our own bows so they could test out and get a sense of flinging arrows from other primitive bows. Noon found us all gathered for a rest and a hearty barbeque on the deck and conversations grew and deepened. One fellow was a tank commander, another rode below the surface of the ocean and piloted a submarine. Some shared of their home lives, some shared of their struggles with civilian life, others shared their hopes and dreams. Some gave details of tough encounters they experienced at war. A couple men nodded in agreement that they would go back in a heart-beat. One fellow shared that he struggles big time with anger. For some their physical wounds were obvious, others were hidden. I could only guess at each man’s psychological wounds and haunting memories that may lurk beneath the surface.
|