Knives sharpened here

Was riding my bicycle through the backroads of Kentucky today -- across a tobacco field, towards a small cluster of buildings. A home, a barn, etc.

Out front they had a sign "Knives Sharpened Here". A small home business done mainly for their farming neighbors, by a farming family. A simple, handwritten sign.

Dad sharpened knives. A grinding wheel set on his work bench in the basement. A small home workshop, knives sharpend mostly for family and neighbors, by a family man. No sign needed.

I can imagine him sharpening knives. Huddled over the wheel, carefully, lovingly sharpening each knife. Carefully checking them, making adjustements as needed, close attention to detail.

I remember when he died one of my sisters mentioned that he had not been home from wintering in Florida, been healthy enough, long enough -- to have sharpened her knives. And with that sudden realization, that sharp intake of reality, that crushing moment of clarity, acknowledged that she would never again have knives sharpened in quite the same way again.

It wasn't the knives. Another skilled artist could ably sharpen the knives. But never again would they be so lovingly, carefully, be made right and new again.

It is so funny -- the little things. We take for granted because they are always there. Something so seemingly insignificant, so hugely missed. We don't realize the implications at the time. It doesn't seem so important, a meaningless, repetitive task. A favor done, time and time again.

What is it? It's the person, the connection. It's the soul, the love. It's knowing someone is watching out for you, taking care of all of those small, seemingly insignificant items. Knowing you can always count on the quality, the task being done. Knowing someone is there for you.

No -- it wasn't about the knives.