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.