The Toymaker

The thing about magic is that we rarely recognize it.

In fact, that’s sort of what makes it magic. No one really wants to know how Houdini escaped, or how David Copperfield made the Statue of Liberty vanish into thin air. Knowledge isn’t worth the price of admission; we pay for the mystery.

As Michael Caine famously says at the beginning (and the end) of The Prestige: “Are you watching closely?”

For most of us, the answer is no. No, we’re not. As Caine goes on to say, we’re not really looking at all. We’re adrift in blissful ignorance, too preoccupied with the daily trivialities of life to notice the miracles happening right in front of our face.

That’s not an accusation – it’s a confession. I’m the world’s worst offender.

But I recently met a man who forced me to look. Who opened my eyes. Who taught me that magic, real magic, is always worth the price of admission.

This past Sunday, I spoke at a little country church in a little country town close to where I grew up. It was quintessential, straight off the pages of a Grisham novel – gravel driveway, white steeple, and a stately oak standing guard out front. It was the epitome of hometown hospitality; every single person spoke to me, without exception, and most of them brought a homecooked dish for the potluck we had afterward.

I gained 9 pounds and don’t regret a single one. By gosh, I wish I’d eaten more. I’ve had dreams about those dumplings – whoever made them, if you’re reading this, you should patent that recipe. I’m not kidding.

But halfway through the meal, something profound happened, even more profound than those transcendent  dumplings: Magic. Real magic. The kind worth recognizing.

An elderly gentleman walked up to my table carrying a suede bag (true magicians always use props). He first spoke to my girlfriend, then my sister, but I couldn’t hear what he said. If I’m being honest, I was probably too immersed in my food.

But when the message finally filtered down the table, I knew I’d never forget it: He had asked them both if they had children. When they said no, he wasn’t deterred. He told them they probably would someday and proceeded to give them a half dozen handmade toys – wooden cars and trucks – that their future children could play with.

He officially had my attention.

The suede bag turned out to be full of them, wooden vehicles of every size, every single one crafted by his steady hand. Some even still had sawdust clinging to them. Watching him hand them out, I felt tears sting my eyes. Such acts of pure kindness are rare in today’s culture, but at that point, I didn’t know the half of it.

As it turns out, Randall Lytle, The Toymaker, used to make toys so he and his wife could travel to craft shows all over the country.

“She’s buried out back now,” he says, pointing beyond the church, to the hillside cemetery sloping toward the woods. “Now I just make them for kiddos. I take them to Wal-Mart a few times a week, hand them out to folks that maybe can’t afford toys for their children.” He smiles and looks down, as if it’s no big deal.

It is.

The tears have now puddled and overflown my eyelids; one has streaked down my left cheek, a rivulet of emotion that seemingly went unnoticed. Randall was all smiles as he handed me a wooden truck.

“Here,” he said. “Take as many as you want. You can never have too many.”

I take them and thank him as ardently as I know how, but the truth is that I was nearly at a loss for words. And yet, we haven’t even really gotten to the magic yet.

Right before he walked away, carrying his suede bag of toys, he met my eyes. I knew immediately, in a synaptic flash of unspoken empathy, that he knew. He had seen the tears. But more than that, he had seen my heart. He had listened to me speak, had even bought two books. He knew my story.

I was shaking his hand when he said it. It was so casual, like an exhale. But we both knew it wasn’t.

“You go enjoy your life,” he said, nodding at my girlfriend. “It’s not over, you know.”

Then he walked away, his suede bag dangling at his side.

Poof.

The Statue of Liberty had vanished.

It’s amazing what we can see when we’re watching closely.

A fellow journeyer,

Bryan