(These two stories are from the Encore Chapter of God’s Not Finished Yet. At the bottom of each story is a link to the actual woodcarvings.)
The Encore Years
The first sixty-five years of my life were the Main Act of this memoir - full of stories, stumbles, discipleship, adventures, and a few solid lessons learned. You’ve read some of the highlights of my life, survived the tales, and now we’ve reached what most people call your retirement years and yet I have chosen to call it my Encore Years.
These aren’t quiet golf-course-and-birdwatching tales. These are repeat performances, surprise plot twists, and creative bursts that no one - least of all me - saw coming. They’ve been powered by curiosity, risk-taking, and the occasional dip into foolishness. This isn’t a how-to guide. It’s a how-to-laugh guide. Or maybe just a chance to shake your head and say, Classic Mike. No applause necessary. No legacy to secure. Just me, still listening for what God has next. Because apparently, He’s not done. And neither am I. Here’s a taste of the stories ahead – a range of simple to complex, fun to ridiculous, heart-felt to spontaneous – something for everyone I hope.
Woody the Legend
It began, as most of my more questionable decisions do, with a whisper of inspiration and a complete disregard for practicality. Woody was born in 2021. He weighed in at two hundred and fifty pounds, eighty-four inches long, and seventy-two inches high. Birthplace? Our back deck in Ohio. He didn’t cry, but I nearly did. He arrived not in a hospital or a stable, but surrounded by sawdust, squirrels, discarded paint cans, and more than a little head-scratching from the neighbors.
There was no sponsor, no deadline, and no earthly reason why a man in his seventies should spend six months sculpting a full-sized wooden carousel horse outdoors. But there I was - armed with chisels, clamps, and a dream, and covered in wood shavings and optimism. My wife watched with a mixture of admiration, confusion, and mild concern. Birds and neighbors observed silently, unsure if they were witnessing a masterpiece or a midlife crisis. But this is how it goes for those of us who are called to awe. Let me back up.
Growing up in Brooklyn, where magic lived at the end of the Q train—the Coney Island Boardwalk - you could smell the salt air before you saw the ocean, and hear the clatter of rides before they came into view. But for me, one ride always stood out: the carousel. To a child, it wasn’t just fun—it was mystical. Lights spun in slow motion. Music drifted through the air like an old lullaby. Horses reared, lions prowled, and dragons soared in stillness. I didn’t understand how they were made—I just believed they were. Like stars. Or thunderstorms. Even then, I felt something sacred at play. Awe. That was the word. That’s still the word.
I’d line up for a ride hoping for the right horse - you know the one. Painted like royalty. Mid-leap. A steed for a boy on a quest. I’d grip the pole like a sword and ride as if I were heading into legend, even with my parents standing five feet away. My imagination was always strong - but much stronger at the beach. It was Disneyland on steroids - before Walt Disney lived his dream.
Decades passed. I became a teacher—shop class. I built cabinets and furniture. Mentored students. Raised a family. Built things that made sense. But that old awe never left. Every time I saw a carousel, something stirred. Something ancient. Childlike. A whisper, getting louder. Then, a needed spark: my daughter visited Carousels and Carvings in Marion, Ohio, and casually said, Dad, this should be on your bucket list. She had no idea what she’d just done.
A few weeks later, I knocked on the door of that very factory. The owner answered. I told him my story Brooklyn boy, Coney Island, retired shop teacher, carousel-obsessed - and asked if they gave tours. He said no… but he thought I was still a current shop teacher and invited me in anyway. (Later, he admitted he hoped I’d send him some students - potential employees.) That day I didn’t walk through a warehouse - I walked through heaven. I watched the carvers and painters at work. I asked countless questions. I listened intently. I forgot to breathe. I didn’t ask to take pictures—he told me to. Chills danced down my spine. I imagined myself carving there—not painting, mind you; those fine strokes require a surgeon’s hand and years of training. I thought to myself: I’m retired. Maybe I could drive here, sleep in a hotel, carve for a few days, and then drive the two hours back home.
And then I continued my thinking—the question that would reshape my year: What if I carved a carousel horse myself? Not a model. Not a tabletop version. A full-sized, galloping wooden horse. The kind I used to ride in wonder. Clearly, I was in a yes season of life—and possibly a lapse in judgment. I returned home. I bought wood blocks so big they barely fit in the shed. I turned the back deck into a makeshift workshop-slash-birthing center. There were no blueprints. Just rough sketches from the pictures I took. Only memories, awe, and a pile of carousel reference books fluttering in the breeze. Hand tools, rasps, sandpaper, chisels, and gouges became my best friends. And Woody… well, Woody did not emerge quietly.
There were weeks I questioned my sanity. Entire afternoons when Woody looked less like a horse and more like a prehistoric creature from a forgotten children’s museum. But slowly, something beautiful emerged. Muscles formed. A mane took shape. Eyes stared back at me with mischief and meaning. I found myself caught in that mystical state where time disappears and your hands know more than your head. Woody became more than a sculpture. He became a companion. A resurrection of my childhood days.
Eventually, Woody moved inside - because obviously, the back deck was no place for a legend. He stood tall in scarlet and grey colors, a tribute to The Ohio State University, and earned his name accordingly: Woody. Not just because he was made of wood, but in honor of Woody Hayes, the iconic OSU football coach. And then it was time for a party.
I contacted Suzanne, the director of our local preschool, and said, How about a birthday party for a wooden horse? To her credit, she didn’t hang up. We threw Woody his first birthday party in the church gymnasium—with balloons, cake, ice cream, music, and a line of over fifty children attired in scarlet and grey, waiting for a photo op with the seemingly giant horse who didn’t move—but somehow felt very much alive. Pictures were taken. Kids squealed with delight. Teachers laughed. Even the grown-ups caught a little awe. Today, Woody lives with a local non-profit - where he’s found yet another purpose: bringing joy and raising funds for breast cancer awareness. Which just goes to show... even in your seventies, you’re not too old to dream ridiculous dreams.
O Whittle Town of Bethlehem
It started with an invitation from Andrea to visit the University of Dayton, where we explored an international display of hand-carved nativity creches - hundreds of them, each a gift from a different corner of the world. For someone like me, it was both awe-inspiring and humbling. One scene in particular stopped me in my tracks. Crafted by a South American artist, it included twenty-five individual figures, each about the size of a baseball. I stood there for a long time, completely drawn in. I took dozens of photos, slowly capturing every angle. I didn’t want to forget a single detail.
Back home, I pulled out some sketch paper and began drawing what I’d seen. Before long, I was tracking down my old carving tools and ordering basswood. I hadn’t carved in decades, but something had been stirred awake. This was to become an encore season. And so began a three-month creative pilgrimage. Almost daily, I held each figure in my hands, carving with quiet focus, asking questions that felt larger than the wood itself. Why had the artist chosen these particular people?
There were, of course, the familiar figures: Mary, Joseph, Jesus, an angel, three magi, and a shepherd. But the rest were unexpected—a man carrying a jug of water, a woman holding a dead chicken, a boy walking alongside one of the magi—perhaps his son. There was a man with his head bowed, hat in hand, as if coming to pray. Another man and boy, each with a musical instrument. A shepherd with a sheep draped across his shoulders. And of course, the animals: cattle, a donkey, and a flock of sheep. The more I carved, the deeper the questions went. What inspired those choices?
And what might a nativity look like today? Would it include a cell phone, a laptop, a cup of drive-thru coffee? Would someone show up in hiking boots—or on a motorbike? I didn’t need answers. Asking the questions felt like its own kind of worship. This became one of the most meaningful faith journeys I’ve ever experienced.
When the carving was complete, the next step was to bring the figures to life with color. I turned to Rusty, an artist friend, for help. We didn’t want them to look mass-produced or overly polished. Instead, we chose soft, blended tones that gave each figure a quiet dignity—a peaceful kind of unity, with a beauty that invited people to linger. Then came another blessing.
Two years after the project began, we found a permanent home for the nativity: a regional, faith-based retreat center where teens and adults gather for prayer, learning, and reflection. It felt right that the set would live not in a museum or on a mantel, but in a space where people ask big questions - just as I had. Adding to the joy was the fact that the center’s director - a former student of mine - welcomed the nativity with open arms. She understood not only the meaning of the piece, but the story behind its creation. The one who once discipled her had returned to his childhood hobby to carve it. That connection made it sacred for both of us. Like a rosary or a statue, this nativity became a symbol of faith - not just for those who visit, but for me as well.