ONE HANDED CABINET MAKER ... NON DOMINANT HAND

It looks to me like this fellow has two hands.  It does look as though he has but one.  This is a little bit of an unintended follow-up from last night's "Why me?" thought.  It came to me when I was at the church preparing for my presentation on the subject of prayer.  As it turned out, I was stopped by one of our major collaborators for the week-long Adult Faith Formation Week Mini Congress.  This man has one hand, his left.  He was driving his pick-up and met me on the campus of the church where I was setting up my presentation for the evening.  He stopped and I walked up to the window and what do I see but finger food on the passenger's seat.  I didn't  say anything but I could not help but think that this friend of mind drives with one hand, eats and shifts and does a lots of things with just one hand.  Amazing.  Reminds me of a man I knew in my younger days.
There was a young man, a cabinet maker who lost his dominant hand in an industrial accident.  He was plunged into a deep depression by this turn of events and was having a hard time getting out of it.  He had six children to support and didn't have an idea of how to do it with his dominant hand gone.  The priest used to come to his house every Friday evening to play Parcheesi, a board game.  One night the priest told those man that the milk company down the street was in need of a night watchman to watch the horses in the barn over night.  The young man, being a city dweller knew nothing about horses, but because he needed the work decided to try it out.  It was not long after the first night that the fear of the horses themselves (dray horses are not small) and the discomfort of being disabled were too much for the young many to overcome and he had to tell his employer that he had to quit.  This was a hard thing to do because the job had come from a once removed family member and the priest.  About one month later, one Friday night after the Parcheesi game the priest told the man, "On Monday, you come to the rectory (parsonage) with your tools and you will start to work for me."  The young many protested, hemmed and hawed but to no avail.  The priest was adamant.   Monday cam and the young man did not want to go.  He wife gathered up hi tools, put therm in the tool box, closed it, took her husband by the good hand and started to tug him down to the street level where she could begin to conduct him to the priest's residence.
She got him to the job.  He was weeping with so many mixed emotions that it took him  long time before entering to report for work.  When he stopped asking himself "Why me?" he entered into the residence, too his first orders and never stopped working for the priest who saved his life and presumable even that of his family.  That man, Joseph Thibault, my maternal Grandfather re - learned the trade that the accident had taken away from him temporarily and worked tn to the highest professional degree for fifty [50] years from that day until the day he died at the age of 75.

Why me?  Hey, just do something.  You'll know "why me" when you finish.