Over the years, I've had people tell me what happens when they bring one of my stars into their home.
Sometimes they tell me about the pride they feel when they look at it hanging on their wall.
Sometimes it's the way the colors and the old, distressed finish seem to make the room feel different.
Sometimes they simply say that looking at it gives them a sense of peace.
And then there are the stories from veterans and military families. A star presented to a veteran. A star given by a husband, wife, parent, child, or friend. A star placed somewhere special to remember someone who served.
Those stories mean more to me than I can really put into words.
Because when I make a star, I'm not just cutting pieces of wood, painting them, distressing them and putting them together.
I'm spending time with it.
I'm concentrating on what I'm doing. I'm thinking about the person who might eventually own it. And, honestly, there's something therapeutic about that process for me.
The shop can get quiet. The saws stop. The sanding is done. The paint goes on. And for a while, I'm just creating something with my hands.
There's a peace in that.
And maybe that's why I've never been able to look at these stars as just something I sell.
I've sometimes thought about what it would be like if I were in a financial position where I didn't have to sell them at all.
I think I'd still make them.
I'd probably make even more.
I'd make them for the veteran who could use a reminder of the life they've lived.
I'd make them for the family who wants something meaningful to remember someone by.
I'd make them for the person who simply needs something beautiful and peaceful hanging on their wall.
I'd make them because creating them does something for me, too.
Maybe that's the part that's hardest to explain.
Some people find peace in looking at one of my stars.
I find a little bit of peace in making it.
And somewhere between the person who makes the star and the person who receives it, something pretty special happens.
That's what keeps me making them.