Our Heritage

Cold-Forged in Upstate New York Winters

As a boy, I helped my father, Paul, cut and haul firewood logs from the woods, sometimes in a foot of snow.  When my strength failed, he sent me to wait in the truck.  I'd watch through the glass as he single-handedly finished loading the truck by hand because we never left without a full load.  There, I saw a mirror of the God who is strong when we are not—the Provider who continues when our own strength ends.

The hard work never stopped. Often, as late as nine or ten o'clock at night, I would lie in bed and hear it through the farmhouse window—the distant, rhythmic sound of an 8 lb. steel maul slamming against frozen rounds of wood.  My father worked out there alone under a field light, bundled up, making ends meet for his family.  He taught me wood splits cleaner in the bitter cold; and he stayed warm because the work kept his blood warm.

I spent my life wanting to be like that man.  I imitated him.  Eventually, as a young man, I took my place alone in the dark chopping wood.  In the solitude, character and gravity grew in my spirit.  I discovered the Lord’s grace and strength under that field light.

That is the authority behind every walking staff we shape today.  I learned discipline, sacrificial love, and how to carry my cross from a father who worked with wood until his blood ran hot in the freezing night.  When you hold this walking stick, you are carrying the legacy of that same unshakeable Tentmaker Spirit.