dafydd manton
09-21-2010, 07:49 AM
This isn't a Poem by any stretch of the imagination, but it is part of a story that has been in part told on here, so I thought this would be the best place for it. You all put up with my meanderings, so I hope you don't mind. Anyway, I like being among friends.
A Parable.
Once, there was a man, an ordinary man, who had a model railway in his house. It had been built many years before, for some children that were now grown up with families of their own. One day, the man had time to kill, and he wandered in to a shop containing all the stuff that a model railway enthusiast could want. Brand new, miniature locomotives for over $200, way out of his reach. In a dusty corner was a box, with bits and pieces from way back when, just rubbish, really. In the bottom of the box was an old locomotive, once somebody's pride and joy, a very good model indeed, but now it was battered and scruffy, and not worth a second look. He parted with a very low sum - less than $10 - and took the engine home. Now this man loves looking after things, expecially tiny, delicate things, and he set to. He painstakingly cleaned it, every single part, removed all the care of the years, burnished it, took ages, but it started to look very good. He lubricated every single working part, delicately put it all back together, shining like it was new. The exterior was a mess, covered in dust and grime, the paint chipped from much usage. He took some cotton buds, and very, very carefully removed every single mark, so that the original colour shone through, then with the finest of paint brushes, he restored the gold markings, silvered what would be polished metal, covered the ravages of the years. The number on the side, 6237, was difficult, curved lines tend to be. After many days, and a lot of hard work, the locomotive was ready. It look every bit as good as new, better even, for he had added to it, despite the damage that time and a lack of care had wreaked on it. He was, to be honest, very proud, but this was the moment of truth. Sure, it looked fantastic, and it was a whole load better than it had ever been, but would it run? Would it work? Tentatively he applied some power, and the engine started to move, slowly but surely. With an increase in power, it ran as if it had never, ever been used before, eager, elegant, sure, dignified, magnificent. That engine was a success, and an absolute favourite.
Why am I telling you this? Well, that engine is six feet from my left hand right at this very second. It runs better than all the other stuff, looks better, is stronger, more striking and much more appreciated, because it was like a phoenix from the ashes. I am very fond of that engine.
If that can be done by one man, with a complex electrical model, that man has no doubt got the ability to mend other things, including a heart that needs attention. He is working on it, right this moment.
A Parable.
Once, there was a man, an ordinary man, who had a model railway in his house. It had been built many years before, for some children that were now grown up with families of their own. One day, the man had time to kill, and he wandered in to a shop containing all the stuff that a model railway enthusiast could want. Brand new, miniature locomotives for over $200, way out of his reach. In a dusty corner was a box, with bits and pieces from way back when, just rubbish, really. In the bottom of the box was an old locomotive, once somebody's pride and joy, a very good model indeed, but now it was battered and scruffy, and not worth a second look. He parted with a very low sum - less than $10 - and took the engine home. Now this man loves looking after things, expecially tiny, delicate things, and he set to. He painstakingly cleaned it, every single part, removed all the care of the years, burnished it, took ages, but it started to look very good. He lubricated every single working part, delicately put it all back together, shining like it was new. The exterior was a mess, covered in dust and grime, the paint chipped from much usage. He took some cotton buds, and very, very carefully removed every single mark, so that the original colour shone through, then with the finest of paint brushes, he restored the gold markings, silvered what would be polished metal, covered the ravages of the years. The number on the side, 6237, was difficult, curved lines tend to be. After many days, and a lot of hard work, the locomotive was ready. It look every bit as good as new, better even, for he had added to it, despite the damage that time and a lack of care had wreaked on it. He was, to be honest, very proud, but this was the moment of truth. Sure, it looked fantastic, and it was a whole load better than it had ever been, but would it run? Would it work? Tentatively he applied some power, and the engine started to move, slowly but surely. With an increase in power, it ran as if it had never, ever been used before, eager, elegant, sure, dignified, magnificent. That engine was a success, and an absolute favourite.
Why am I telling you this? Well, that engine is six feet from my left hand right at this very second. It runs better than all the other stuff, looks better, is stronger, more striking and much more appreciated, because it was like a phoenix from the ashes. I am very fond of that engine.
If that can be done by one man, with a complex electrical model, that man has no doubt got the ability to mend other things, including a heart that needs attention. He is working on it, right this moment.