Dottie pulled one index finger slowly down the pane.

Autumn frosts had glittered into existence and this morning’s sunlight turned every glint into a transient diamond.

She smiled and watched the coolness melt against the heat of her hand.

Murky grays melded into sodden wood and crispy leaves. A few red berries bobbed in the wind’s cold reminders of coming snows.

Taking a deep breath, Dottie turned to the nearby rocking chair and picked up her knitting needles.

Click, slip, thread, click, slip, thread.

The warmth of the large quilt lay heavy over her legs. It felt good in the morning’s cool light.

Some days she would linger by this window for hours. Other days she would curl up next to the warm stove and watch her mother prepare breakfast. Still other times, she set up camp by the back door and watched her siblings gathering hickory nuts on the hill.

But today, the window suited her best.

She couldn’t see the mirror this way.

They called it a mirror, but it was really a piece of cracked, yet very shiny tin—placed over the small china hutch on the left of the kitchen.

It told a truth that Dottie didn’t always want to hear.

A truth she often forgot.

Yet a truth that never left.

Several more stitches. Slip, click, slip, thread.

She freed one hand to run it over the luxurious folds of knitted and homespun yarn. At least this was pretty.

Down deep in Dottie’s heart she took a meager, very meager comfort in this fact. She didn’t say it aloud. In fact, she knew it wasn’t true that she didn’t have beauty. She knew she was fearfully and wonderfully made!

But this …at least she could make things that were pretty …even if she wasn’t herself. Even if others always witnessed her twisted leg and missing foot. Even if others saw her unstable frame. At least what she made …was beautiful to behold.

The sounds of breakfast in process created a comforting frame to her thoughts. Gently picking up the abandoned needle again, Dottie went back to work.

Geese, eager on their southward journey, pronounced their proximity by determined honks. Wind began its quiet whistling around the house. The distant laughter of her siblings caring for the farm animals creamed the whole into one peaceful harmony.

It was then that she heard the steps before the door. The familiar slight drag and clomp.

Dottie twisted in her chair, breathing one excited word to her mother. “Mr. Woody!”

Mr. Woody was the old wood chopper of this mountainous region in Virginia. He was much like a grandfather to any and all children that crossed his path. A little awkward in movements, rusty in dress and manners, the man had a heart like a broad woods filled with the breathtaking flames of an autumn day. Warm, gentle and always respectful, his smile was welcome anywhere.

Sometimes Dottie secretly wondered if even the fiercest wolverine would dare to argue with the tall, broad-shouldered man after seeing his kindly expression.

“Well, how’s my Dottie Do-it-all doing today?”

Dottie laughed as the warm voice boomed into their kitchen. Her father followed after the man, a load of freshly chopped wood in his arms.

Mr. Woody set down his own armload of wood and turned to where Dottie was perched on the rocking chair.

“I’ve brought something for my little friend who knits amazing things.”

Dottie looked up eagerly.

Putting his hand into the leather satchel slung over his shoulder, Mr. Woody withdrew a small, carved, figurine that looked just like her.

At first, Dottie was delighted. The little girl had pigtails just like she did, and wore a lovely little painted blue dress. But then …

…her smile faded.

There was her leg, and the missing foot. The part of her life she had always lived with. The part she never quite wanted to admit was real and true.

Mr. Woody knelt down next to Dottie. When she looked up, she saw great empathy and understanding in his eyes. 

And did she see a glitter …just like the melted glitter on the window pane?

Gently, Mr. Woody drew out a lovely bunch of delicate flowers from another pocket. They were a kind that Dottie had never seen.

The smile came back to her face.

Mr. Woody took the wooden figurine from Dottie’s hand and placed it quietly on the flowers.

“Dottie,” he said, his voice unusually scratchy for some reason, “in all my years of wood chopping, I’ve always had one problem. I can’t walk fast. My right foot is what some doctors call a club foot. It’s not severe like some, but it makes everything harder in life.”

Dottie became serious.

“But you know what? Because I can’t walk fast, I see things that others miss. Like these flowers. They’re up on a hill above the road. I had to stop and rest earlier and noticed them.”

Taking a breath to steady himself, the wood chopper continued, touching the figurine among the flowers. “Dottie, if you weren’t like me, how would you ever make those beautiful blankets? How would you have the time and understanding to make warm coverings for others who can’t move about and make it for themselves?”

The burly gentleman of the woods began to weep quietly now, and his words steadied. “Dottie, God can use weak things for beautiful things. It’s the world that despises and casts down the weak. Don’t let the world’s eyesight affect your own.” Bending a little so his line of sight was along the same line as hers, Mr. Woody finished, “It’s a privilege to be one of God’s weak ones. I know He wants to do great things through you.”

That evening, Dottie set the little figurine on the frosty windowsill and arranged the rare flowers all around. She smiled and gently traced the wooden outline, letting her fingers fall to the delicate petals below.

“Dear God,” she whispered in the growing quiet of night, “please keep me with your weak ones. I want to be there now.”

And far, far in the distance a loon lifted its graceful wings and flew above a quiet figure slowly descending the hill with an axe slung over his shoulder.

“And He said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for My strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong.” 2 Corinthians 12:9-10

“But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; And base things of the world, and things which are despised, hath God chosen, yea, and things which are not, to bring to nought things that are: That no flesh should glory in His presence.” 1 Corinthians 1:27-29

“And His disciples asked Him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him.” John 9:2-3

Katie didn’t mind.
 
It made the tall pines bend their regal spires as though desiring a more poetic viewpoint of the sky and the grasses waved in graceful motions as though desirous of following in the wave laps (in lieu of footsteps) of the ocean.

READ THE STORY