Many years ago, I taught a lesson in a priesthood meeting. I don’t remember much about the lesson other than the topic. It was about Christ and, at least in part, about His crucifixion.
I brought a heavy hammer and a block of wood that Sunday. I had also purchased the largest nails I could find at a local hardware store, nails that looked nothing like the photo to the left, but which would serve their purpose.
Our little group sat on the stage in our Church building, behind a thick, velvet-like curtain. I think I left the hammer and nails on the small, laminate table during the lesson.
Near the end of the hour, I knelt on the floor and hammered a large nail into the block of wood with the heavy hammer. It was part of an object lesson. I hit the nail, slowly and deliberately, over and over, until it sunk deep into the wood. I don’t rightly remember what my point was.
The little group fell silent, as did I. All ears, all hearts, were focused on the ringing of the hammer and nail.
This might have been 25 or 30 years ago. I can still hear the ring of metal striking metal. It made me tremble — not the sound itself, but what the sound meant. What the sound cost. What I cost.