G-d's Bench

On the street corner near my childhood home, there used to be a stall where an elderly peddler made his living. It was a simple hawker stall, the kind that can close upon itself when not in used; like a newsstand. The streets were lined up with these kind of stalls back then, each one selling different wares; essentially creating a bustling open market. 

Of all those stalls, I particularly remember this one the most. I remember it being filled with odd assortment of decrepit and discarded items- toys, TV sets, water heaters, all sort of things ranging from small to large. There was just something special about it, a captivating ambience that seems to segregate itself from all the hurly-burly that surrounds it. Perhaps it is the antiquity projected both by the owner and the wares; time seems to freeze when one enters within vicinity of that stall. I recall walking by it each day, and there would be the ancient peddler fixing things on his workbench with a nimbleness that borderlines on art. There was nothing clumsy about those fingers of his, they move about as if they have a spirit of their own. Confident, fluid, the peddler would work away on his current project with refined deftness. I remember being fascinated by the inner workings of a lot of the objects that find its way onto his operation table. How he would find ways to reveal their secrets and sew them all back up ready to be re-sold. 

Being young and curious at the time, I had a tendency of literally breaking into my new toys. I am proud to say at that tender age, I enjoyed unparalleled success in breaking things down, but when it came to fixing them, well, that part eludes me even to this day. So often times, I find myself standing in front of the peddler stall, teary and all, my new victim in my hands begging the peddler to kindly look at it and fix it before my parents throw a fit at me for breaking a brand new toy. Usually, he would heave an amused sigh, plucked the toy from my hands and within a few moments, they would always come back whole again. It became a routine, Christmas, birthday comes, a new toy and I would find myself the next day standing at the stall waiting for a miracle on the workbench. He was a god to me then, a renaissance man who could fix anything I threw at him: a radio, a Transformer robot, anything. It was like watching a miracle worker in action. There doesn't seem to be anything he could not fix. What is more, he never made me feel guilty about it, he would always find ways to soothe me as he fix whatever it is that needed to be fixed. I felt bad that he would take time out of his livelihood to fix my stuff, but that guilt was often overshadowed by the unfound fear of what would happen to me if my parents found out that I broke my gift in record time. 

I don't know what happen to that peddler, I don't know how his business went, or if he has long since retired. I remember going back to that street searching for a trace of him, hoping I can repay him. But much time has passed, and I can only hope he is in a better place. I don't know what compelled me to remember him to you... He was just another random stranger who has shown me much kindness, kindness that I have failed to returned. Strange thing is, looking back I realize that in some magical way, that peddler embodies the spirit of G-d in my life. How often in later years do I find myself standing in front of G-d's altar with my troubles, asking him to fix it. I know for many, the altar is the Lord's table set for a grand feast. That before we arrive at the table for the meal, we must cleanse ourselves, rid ourselves of all unnecessary thoughts. However, that peddler forever changed my perception of the altar. The altar is no longer just a dinner table, but a workbench where we all come before to offer our troubles. Broken hearts, shattered dreams, downtrodden souls all are brought before His bench work bench in hopes that He may mend them, comfort them and make them whole again.