Saturday, October 10, 2009


I once heard a story about a young girl, so deeply beloved by her dad, that he gave her a pouch of pearls. The girl loved and cherished her pearls so much, every night when her dad came in to tuck her in, she would always look at her pearls and thank her daddy for them. One night, her dad came in and asked for the pearls back. Upset and offended, she refused and cried. Night after night, her dad would come in and ask for her to give up the pearls to him. And night after night, she would refuse. Finally, one night her dad came in and asked for the pearls again. He told her to trust him. Broken, she threw the pouch of pearls at his feet, where they scattered. "Fine! Take them!" she sobbed, through her anger and hurt.

Her dad quietly picked up the pearls, kissed her wet cheeks, and said goodnight. The next night, her dad came back in, took her hands in his, and said, "Sweetie, I'm so glad that you gave me back the pearls, because now I can give you these." And he placed a beautiful, perfect, brilliant diamond in her palm.

I split up the story on purpose. I feel like I am in the middle of the two parts of the story. I wonder, am I clinging on to pearls when I could be holding a diamond? Even worse, am I missing the sustaining love offered by my Daddy's omnipresence?

Or is my part in the story earlier? Have I even messily surrendered my pearls yet? I don't even know where my heart is in all this.

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