Once upon a time (cause that’s how all good stories begin) there was a man. Not a tall man. Not a short man.

Just a man.

Brown hair, soft like ribbons. Large eyes, black like coal. And two thin lips, invisible except when the man smiled. But when he smiled, his lips became the grinning fault-line splitting his rounded peninsula of a chin. And behind those lips he had perfectly square, perfectly white teeth.

The man was kind.

I knew it when he scooped me from the pile, moving aside shinier pieces. I felt gentleness in his hands that day, though his calloused fingers prodded my strength, thumped me, and checked for cracks. Finally, he held me to the light and his black eyes scrutinized my angles, my color. His jutting chin split in two, and those white squares sparkled back at me.

“Perfect,” he said. “You’ll be perfect.”

He closed his fist and I warmed there, just a grimy piece of glass. Strong, able. But not the best of the bunch. This I knew, but I did not care. The man, the kind man, had use for me. I nestled back and forth, feeling the crevices of his palm, feeling the bend of his knuckles. I had never been so happy.

And then, he opened his hand and the harsh light of the hardware store struck me again.

“So dirty,” I said, looking up at the man. “I’m sorry I’m so dirty.”

Black eyes twinkled down at me as he placed me on the cold, metal counter.

“I’ll take this one,” he said, to the shop owner.

“Really? This one.”

“Yes, this one.”

“I have cleaner ones, Sir. Just let me show you.”

“No, thank you. This is just the one I need.”

The shop owner shrugged, and money changed hands.

“She’s all yours,” the shop owner said.

Yes, I am. Yes. I am.

The man, the kind one, opened a toolbox. Silver. Tin, maybe. He opened it up and put me inside, carefully, cautiously. It was colder there. I’d much rather have been in his hand, but no matter. He’d chosen me. The kind man needed me. The two sides of the lid closed and as darkness consumed the box, the man’s face lingered above me, smiling. Always smiling. And then a latch was heard and things became very complicated.

It didn’t take my eyes long to adjust to the shadowy toolbox, and eventually I found my place. Nestled in the corner, behind a suffocating rag, I made friends with a buck-toothed hammer, a sharp little chisel, and a clingy bottle of glue. We spoke of the man. Of his soft hair and black eyes. We traded stories. Of the days when each of us were chosen. How special we felt. How excited. How hopeful. And we dreamed together. Soon, very soon, the kind man would put us to use.

After much jostling and clanging, the latch snapped open and our silver walls parted. The man’s face came into view. Kind, still kind, but absorbed in thought. He stared down at us, his fingers twitching. Oh, how I wanted to jump into them! Oh, how I desired to be useful.

“Pick me! Pick me!” I cried, wiggling from beneath the rag.

But, the man did not choose me. His fingers fell on the hammer. As he pulled the tool up and out of the box, my friend, the hammer, waved.

“You’ll be next!” he said, his buckteeth whistling. “I just know it!”

I listened to the hammer do his job, singing away in the man’s capable hands. And I waited, expectantly. But I was not next.

A wrench was chosen. Then my pal, the glue, was torn from me. The witty chisel. A family of nails. The small can of paint. Even the rag–the rag was pulled from my side with a soft sigh of relief. Tool after tool was taken and used. Some returned after their job was completed, and some did not. I heard stories of their exploits, of the jobs they’d been given.

What was the man building, I wondered? But, not a single tool could tell me.

“I just did my job,” the hammer said. “I didn’t ask questions.”

“Same here,” said the glue. “The man squeezed and I produced.”

They tried to be gentle with me, but I could tell. They had enjoyed their time with the man. They had enjoyed being useful. And why shouldn’t they? It’s what they were created for. They were tools. Purchased for the man’s use. But, me? What was I? Nothing but a grimy piece of glass. Why had the man, the kind man, even chosen me?

Perhaps, it had been a mistake.

I watched my friends come and go. I tried to be happy when they shared their success, but I was disheartened. Though, once I had been selected out of many, I now sat useless, oftentimes alone. The toolbox opened and closed. I was jostled and clanged, day after day. But, I was not chosen. I was not used.

And it was not long before I stopped trying to get the man’s attention.

The lid would open and I’d squirm away from the light. I’d crawl out of sight. If he wasn’t going to use me, I should stop hoping. Hope hurts too much. Hours passed, and days, and even the tools seemed to forget my existence.

And then, one day, everything changed.

The kind man’s fingers descended into the box. I didn’t move. I didn’t expect. I just watched. As he moved the hammer aside, and the glue, as he scooched away the rag. I told myself not to hope. But, when his toothpick fingers fell upon me, I squealed with delight. This was my moment. My time. The man had use of me!

Would I sing away like the hammer? Would I produce like the glue?

No, I would not. The man, it seemed, had other plans for me. And they hurt. He sprayed me and scrubbed me. He used that filthy rag to clean me. He even chiseled a bit, though I cried out in pain. Surely, this man would break me. But, he did not. His brow creased with effort, his hands worked tirelessly, and though I sometimes craved the empty safety of the toolbox, the warmth of his hand comforted me.

Had each of my friends gone through their own turmoil? Did they hurt like me? Did every tool, every piece of material, suffer for the man? For his purposes?

The earth of the man’s face split and his smile surfaced. “It is time,” he said.

He lifted me high above his head, and wedged my shiny yellow self tightly into a crevice. A glance around showed I was nestled next to others of my kind. Glass shapes of blue and red shone next to me. Squares and circles of white and purple, brown and orange. Where had they all come from?

“She’s here! She’s here!” I heard them cry. “Finally!”

The man, his ribbon hair waffling, used my pal, the glue, to secure me in place.

“Look!” said the glue. “Look what the man has made!”

And as the man pulled his hands away, the sun struck my back and poured through my yellow skin. I looked around at my brightly lit counterparts, each beaming, each happy to have me.

“We’ve been waiting,” they said. “We wouldn’t have been complete without you!”

I looked down at the hardwood floor. The floor the man had made. I looked at the rows and rows of cushioned seats. Seats the man had fashioned. I saw a stage, an altar. I saw doors and windows. I saw walls and instruments. And then I saw our colors, carried on the rays of the sun, laying like a painting across the floor. There I stood, at the top of a stained glass window. Just one small piece of glass, just one small role. But, what a view! From my rightful place, I could see. From my appointed place, I could understand.

The man had built a church. A beautiful church. Each piece, each tool had been selected carefully. Why I’d been separated from the rest of the glass pieces, I may never know, but being in the toolbox had taught me something: Work had gone into the construction of this place. The tools, the instruments, the materials had all played a part. But, it was the kind man who had accomplished so much. He had used each of us in his own time. When he was ready. And though I questioned his choices throughout the process, no one could argue with the result.

His completed church was a masterpiece.

And I, a grimy faithless sliver, had use.