PARABLES
The greatest storyteller ever known once lived among us in the flesh. His name is Jesus, and one of the many methods He used to preach truth to hungry hearts was to tell simple parables. His parables are new every time I read them, revealing to me the depth of God's Word. Amazing! One simple story can reach so many people where they are and speak to them exactly what words they need to hear. So . . . sometimes I try to copy my Master, hoping that not only can I reflect His Truth with my life but also with my words. He who has hears to hear, let him hear.
Little Upon the Earth
She was a simple spider, but he—he was a GLORIOUS king. She was quiet and lowly and desired nothing but to weave a beautiful and intricate web, just like he told her to, in her quiet and close corner. Oh, but he was beautiful and bold, and his palace stood atop the highest hill in the kingdom and sang out the purposeful goodness of all he was in the land to the people he looked after—to the people he loved—to anyone who dared to truly see who he was. But she, she was content to remain in her corner, content only knowing that he put her there and gave her a job to do.
And he had given her a job. He, who was so much more than she, knew her name. He had whispered to her early one morning her name and that is when she had first realized that she was a spider and that she had a job to do. She did not remember what she had been like before that morning or even where she had been. All she knew was that one day he had held her in his hand and leaned his face close down to her and shushed words, a command. “You are mine,” he had said. “Tachlit, you are most precious to me. I have a plan for you. I am placing you in the corner of my banquet hall. There you will weave your matchless webs. Always, you will weave them—right there in your corner. I want you there. It is a good place. Do not listen to the voices of any who may say otherwise. You are a simple spider, but I know your name, Tachlit.”
And her heart had swelled, and he had carried her to his banquet hall, and she had begun her task of weaving, always weaving a careful web. Some days he would come to her corner and tell her that her web was beautiful, and Tachlit knew that she was right where she was supposed to be, and she was glad she was a simple spider and that her king had given her a name and a job to do.
But, within the palace there also lived those who weren’t so simple. There were the raucous voices of men who flattered the king to his face but spat venomous words about him behind his back. Tachlit heard these words sometimes when the king would exit, leaving the banquet hall to men whose bellies had just been filled with his delicacies. These men were complainers who mocked the feast they had just been served and mocked the walls of the palace. Sometimes they would notice her web in the corner and point and laugh. “How great a king can he be if he allows spiders to build webs in his banquet hall? He feeds us a feast and insults us with spiders!” Most often, one of the men would make his way to her corner and reach for a nearby candlestick that he would rake across the fine strands of Tachlit’s weaving, destroying her web and her perch. She would scurry to the safety of a crack and listen to their laughter and sneers. She was sad for her king, and she would shiver in fright in the dark, waiting for them to leave. But she would also remember the whispering of the king and his all-important purpose, and as soon as the hall was empty again, she would return to her weaving.
Other spiders would come to the hall to work with her, each in her own corner or in her own place along the walls of the hall. Some would work as hard as she, but some would relinquish their tasks after having their webs destroyed so often. They would lurk in the corners and hide from the king and from the men. They were afraid and tired and angry and always afraid, and they did not understand Tachlit’s devotion to her king and to her task. One particularly brutal evening when the banqueters had successfully destroyed every web they could find in the banquet hall, an angry, broken companion hissed at Tachlit, “Why do you return to such a pointless task, Tachlit? Are you stupid, Spider? Do you not realize that you are spinning and weaving, and it is all for nothing? They will just come and destroy your web again. It’s useless. Why don’t you give up?”
Tachlit only kept spinning and replied, “How can we give up, Friend? How can we give up? The King told us to weave webs in our corners. We must not stop. He gave us a job to do.”
“It’s a foolish job, Tachlit, and I don’t think he even cares anymore. Why doesn’t he stay in the hall and keep the men from tearing down our webs? If he cared, he would do that at least. I think he is laughing at us—or maybe he never even told us to spin these webs. Did you ever think that maybe we just imagined it all?”
Tachlit only smiled at that. “I couldn’t have imagined it. I know that he knows my name and that he whispered to me. I must spin my web. He is my great king, and he told me to, and those men may tear it down every day of my life, but I will build it again for my king.”
“You are a fool, Tachlit.”
“No, I am a simple spider, and I am happy because I know that I am doing what he told me to do. I do not understand why he wants me to build a web only to have it destroyed by those vile men who don’t love their king like they should. I only know that he told me to do it, and doing it makes me happy.”
“Doing it makes you a stupid fool.”
Tachlit sighed, “That may be how you see it, but for me to NOT do it would be stupid and foolish. Nothing to me is better than doing what he says to do. When he smiles at me and tells me that I have done well, my heart smiles, and I am glad.”
And Tachlit continued to weave her web until one day the king swept into the banquet hall and gathered her in his hand—her and all her sisters. “No more spinning for you in my banquet hall. You all have spun well, but your task is finished for now. These men have exhausted my patience.” He took Tachlit and her spider sisters outside to his beautiful rose garden and set them loose upon the soft pinks and yellows and crystal whites and deep reds of the most perfect roses they could imagine. “Spin your webs here,” he commanded. “I will visit you often and watch the rainbows in the morning dew caught in the fibers of each strand you weave. You will create beautiful prisms beyond compare.”
That evening as Tachlit spun in the garden beneath the south window of the great banquet hall, she heard a clamor and disruption inside and wondered at the angry shouts and banging. She listened.
“Flies! Everywhere there are flies! Where did they come from? How does the king expect us to enjoy this beautiful feast when all of the food is covered with flies? We cannot eat this!” came roaring voices and angry, slurred words.
And Tachlit knew they were shouting and slapping at flies on their food and flies on their faces and flies in their goblets . . .and Tachlit sighed. She realized that she was sad for the foolish men; she knew where the flies came from, but she doubted that they did.
There be four things which are little upon the earth, but they are exceeding wise . . .The spider taketh hold with her hands and is in kings’ palaces. Proverbs 30:24, 28
“Tachlit” is the Hebrew word for “purpose.”
This parable originated as a response to a writing assignment given to the students of my Pre-AP English 10 class. They challenged me to participate, and I willingly accepted the challenge.
And he had given her a job. He, who was so much more than she, knew her name. He had whispered to her early one morning her name and that is when she had first realized that she was a spider and that she had a job to do. She did not remember what she had been like before that morning or even where she had been. All she knew was that one day he had held her in his hand and leaned his face close down to her and shushed words, a command. “You are mine,” he had said. “Tachlit, you are most precious to me. I have a plan for you. I am placing you in the corner of my banquet hall. There you will weave your matchless webs. Always, you will weave them—right there in your corner. I want you there. It is a good place. Do not listen to the voices of any who may say otherwise. You are a simple spider, but I know your name, Tachlit.”
And her heart had swelled, and he had carried her to his banquet hall, and she had begun her task of weaving, always weaving a careful web. Some days he would come to her corner and tell her that her web was beautiful, and Tachlit knew that she was right where she was supposed to be, and she was glad she was a simple spider and that her king had given her a name and a job to do.
But, within the palace there also lived those who weren’t so simple. There were the raucous voices of men who flattered the king to his face but spat venomous words about him behind his back. Tachlit heard these words sometimes when the king would exit, leaving the banquet hall to men whose bellies had just been filled with his delicacies. These men were complainers who mocked the feast they had just been served and mocked the walls of the palace. Sometimes they would notice her web in the corner and point and laugh. “How great a king can he be if he allows spiders to build webs in his banquet hall? He feeds us a feast and insults us with spiders!” Most often, one of the men would make his way to her corner and reach for a nearby candlestick that he would rake across the fine strands of Tachlit’s weaving, destroying her web and her perch. She would scurry to the safety of a crack and listen to their laughter and sneers. She was sad for her king, and she would shiver in fright in the dark, waiting for them to leave. But she would also remember the whispering of the king and his all-important purpose, and as soon as the hall was empty again, she would return to her weaving.
Other spiders would come to the hall to work with her, each in her own corner or in her own place along the walls of the hall. Some would work as hard as she, but some would relinquish their tasks after having their webs destroyed so often. They would lurk in the corners and hide from the king and from the men. They were afraid and tired and angry and always afraid, and they did not understand Tachlit’s devotion to her king and to her task. One particularly brutal evening when the banqueters had successfully destroyed every web they could find in the banquet hall, an angry, broken companion hissed at Tachlit, “Why do you return to such a pointless task, Tachlit? Are you stupid, Spider? Do you not realize that you are spinning and weaving, and it is all for nothing? They will just come and destroy your web again. It’s useless. Why don’t you give up?”
Tachlit only kept spinning and replied, “How can we give up, Friend? How can we give up? The King told us to weave webs in our corners. We must not stop. He gave us a job to do.”
“It’s a foolish job, Tachlit, and I don’t think he even cares anymore. Why doesn’t he stay in the hall and keep the men from tearing down our webs? If he cared, he would do that at least. I think he is laughing at us—or maybe he never even told us to spin these webs. Did you ever think that maybe we just imagined it all?”
Tachlit only smiled at that. “I couldn’t have imagined it. I know that he knows my name and that he whispered to me. I must spin my web. He is my great king, and he told me to, and those men may tear it down every day of my life, but I will build it again for my king.”
“You are a fool, Tachlit.”
“No, I am a simple spider, and I am happy because I know that I am doing what he told me to do. I do not understand why he wants me to build a web only to have it destroyed by those vile men who don’t love their king like they should. I only know that he told me to do it, and doing it makes me happy.”
“Doing it makes you a stupid fool.”
Tachlit sighed, “That may be how you see it, but for me to NOT do it would be stupid and foolish. Nothing to me is better than doing what he says to do. When he smiles at me and tells me that I have done well, my heart smiles, and I am glad.”
And Tachlit continued to weave her web until one day the king swept into the banquet hall and gathered her in his hand—her and all her sisters. “No more spinning for you in my banquet hall. You all have spun well, but your task is finished for now. These men have exhausted my patience.” He took Tachlit and her spider sisters outside to his beautiful rose garden and set them loose upon the soft pinks and yellows and crystal whites and deep reds of the most perfect roses they could imagine. “Spin your webs here,” he commanded. “I will visit you often and watch the rainbows in the morning dew caught in the fibers of each strand you weave. You will create beautiful prisms beyond compare.”
That evening as Tachlit spun in the garden beneath the south window of the great banquet hall, she heard a clamor and disruption inside and wondered at the angry shouts and banging. She listened.
“Flies! Everywhere there are flies! Where did they come from? How does the king expect us to enjoy this beautiful feast when all of the food is covered with flies? We cannot eat this!” came roaring voices and angry, slurred words.
And Tachlit knew they were shouting and slapping at flies on their food and flies on their faces and flies in their goblets . . .and Tachlit sighed. She realized that she was sad for the foolish men; she knew where the flies came from, but she doubted that they did.
There be four things which are little upon the earth, but they are exceeding wise . . .The spider taketh hold with her hands and is in kings’ palaces. Proverbs 30:24, 28
“Tachlit” is the Hebrew word for “purpose.”
This parable originated as a response to a writing assignment given to the students of my Pre-AP English 10 class. They challenged me to participate, and I willingly accepted the challenge.
Who Holds Your Heart?
Weary Christian sat alone in the place where he met the Master Physician every morning. In his left hand he held his battered heart--bruised by many years of disappointments and failures, unmet expectations, broken dreams, his own rebellion, careless words, and enemy attacks. Examining the new wounds that poured fresh crimson blood, along with older scars that were blackened and calloused over, he spoke to the heart. “I don’t know how you’re going to keep on beating inside me. And, I don’t know how I’m supposed to live out there,” he motioned with a thrust of his chin toward the world that waited. “How am I supposed to be who the Master wants me to be with a heart like you? You have failed me once again,” he muttered, knowing that his heart wouldn’t answer back and that he wouldn’t trust the answers if it did.
He closed his eyes and began to speak to the Master. He opened the book, allowing the Master’s Voice to speak freely, and he began to read, but the words kept running in and out of his mind and wouldn’t stay put. Tangled in his thoughts was the bleeding mess hiding in his hand. Finally, he decided there was no use concealing what his heart had become. The All-knowing Master knew.
“I’m so sorry, Lord,” the tears began. “I’m so sorry, and I’m so tired. I’ve tried to be like you. I am trying to live like you and love like you and give my heart to the world like you. I am trying so hard, but sometimes it just doesn’t matter . . . In fact, Master, I keep waiting, waiting, waiting and trying my best to do everything you tell me to do. Because you promise that you will heal me and cure my broken heart. But look, Master, look at my heart! Look at what has become of it!” In one quick motion, Christian exposed the bleeding mass to the Master Physician. “Look at what I have done to it and what the world has done to it. Every time I think it’s beginning to get stronger, someone else or some new disappointment comes along and gnaws another hole in it. I can’t fix it. What am I doing wrong, Master? How come you aren’t healing my broken heart? What am I doing wrong?”
In a whisper, the soothing and precious comfort of the Master’s Voice came to him. Open the book again. Open it and see. Christian obeyed, and the book became a mirror. In the reflection, he saw his bloody heart and his bloody hands--the truth. His heart was sick and treacherous, and it was, indeed, failing, but he saw something else, too. Glowing within his chest, beating surely was a different kind of heart. “Where did that come from?” he questioned the Master.
That is Jesus’ heart. He gave it to you on the day He named you. It’s been there all along, but you have been trying to live by your old heart. It cannot keep going, so you are trying to heal it or looking for other people to heal it and sometimes even asking me to heal it but never giving it to me long enough to allow it.
Christian moved in closer, examining Jesus’ heart. “But wait, Lord. Jesus’ heart has scars, too. His heart knows pain and disappointment . . .”
Keep looking. Yes, living in your world damaged his heart, too, but do you see the seal around it? Do you see all my promises encircling it? Those are your promises, too. The world cannot destroy His heart like it can yours, and one day His heart will be totally restored.
“Oh, Master! Take my heart. Take it and finish the job the world started! Destroy it. I don’t want it anymore. I would rather have Jesus’ heart!”
Oh, Christian, that is not my plan. I don’t want to destroy your heart. I want to make it look like Jesus’. Your job is to hide your old heart behind Jesus’--to live out there in this world empowered by its beating. Stop giving your heart to the world; they will only damage it more, and it will betray us both. Instead, offer the world Jesus’ heart. That’s what his heart was made for. Give me your heart. Bring it to me, and we’ll work on it together in the quiet, in this place.
This parable originated in response to a writing challenge issued from www.faithwriters.com and entitled "Guard Your Heart."
He closed his eyes and began to speak to the Master. He opened the book, allowing the Master’s Voice to speak freely, and he began to read, but the words kept running in and out of his mind and wouldn’t stay put. Tangled in his thoughts was the bleeding mess hiding in his hand. Finally, he decided there was no use concealing what his heart had become. The All-knowing Master knew.
“I’m so sorry, Lord,” the tears began. “I’m so sorry, and I’m so tired. I’ve tried to be like you. I am trying to live like you and love like you and give my heart to the world like you. I am trying so hard, but sometimes it just doesn’t matter . . . In fact, Master, I keep waiting, waiting, waiting and trying my best to do everything you tell me to do. Because you promise that you will heal me and cure my broken heart. But look, Master, look at my heart! Look at what has become of it!” In one quick motion, Christian exposed the bleeding mass to the Master Physician. “Look at what I have done to it and what the world has done to it. Every time I think it’s beginning to get stronger, someone else or some new disappointment comes along and gnaws another hole in it. I can’t fix it. What am I doing wrong, Master? How come you aren’t healing my broken heart? What am I doing wrong?”
In a whisper, the soothing and precious comfort of the Master’s Voice came to him. Open the book again. Open it and see. Christian obeyed, and the book became a mirror. In the reflection, he saw his bloody heart and his bloody hands--the truth. His heart was sick and treacherous, and it was, indeed, failing, but he saw something else, too. Glowing within his chest, beating surely was a different kind of heart. “Where did that come from?” he questioned the Master.
That is Jesus’ heart. He gave it to you on the day He named you. It’s been there all along, but you have been trying to live by your old heart. It cannot keep going, so you are trying to heal it or looking for other people to heal it and sometimes even asking me to heal it but never giving it to me long enough to allow it.
Christian moved in closer, examining Jesus’ heart. “But wait, Lord. Jesus’ heart has scars, too. His heart knows pain and disappointment . . .”
Keep looking. Yes, living in your world damaged his heart, too, but do you see the seal around it? Do you see all my promises encircling it? Those are your promises, too. The world cannot destroy His heart like it can yours, and one day His heart will be totally restored.
“Oh, Master! Take my heart. Take it and finish the job the world started! Destroy it. I don’t want it anymore. I would rather have Jesus’ heart!”
Oh, Christian, that is not my plan. I don’t want to destroy your heart. I want to make it look like Jesus’. Your job is to hide your old heart behind Jesus’--to live out there in this world empowered by its beating. Stop giving your heart to the world; they will only damage it more, and it will betray us both. Instead, offer the world Jesus’ heart. That’s what his heart was made for. Give me your heart. Bring it to me, and we’ll work on it together in the quiet, in this place.
This parable originated in response to a writing challenge issued from www.faithwriters.com and entitled "Guard Your Heart."
A Feast in the Desert
There once lived A Mighty King whose magnificent fortress perched atop a high hill, surveying a beautiful kingdom, a kingdom that was created by him and reflected all of his wonder. As with all kings, this king had a relentless foe who was determined to usurp and plunder this most beautiful of lands. This Glorious King, who was all-powerful and all-mighty and capable of defeating any foe, did not reveal all his workings to his subjects, but, instead, allowed his foe to introduce rebellion in the land.
The foe was successful in many attempts to turn the lush land into a dry, barren dessert. He was victorious in turning many of the King’s subjects against their Supreme Ruler, but the King did not watch long and silently. His purpose was constant and sure. He looked down from his mighty fortress and witnessed the destruction of the land. He heard the cries of his subjects, wrestling with hunger and thirst in the desert, constantly seeking a way to defeat the foe and return to the King. He sent his beloved son, a Prince beyond perfection, with a lavish feast, prepared specifically for each subject, whose names were all known to him before they were born.
The Prince was sent at a great cost. Leaving the fortress and descending to the desert with his feast, he knew that he was entering into the rebellion sickening his father’s land. He knew that he would be offering his own life to the foe in order to bring a feast to the hungry subjects, but such was his pure desire to reclaim what belonged to his father that he cared not for the loss of his own life. He willingly offered it, trusting in the power and faithfulness of his father to rout all enemies. Being sent, the Prince did give his life. His blood was shed by the dark enemy, but just when the subjects of the land believed that all was lost and that the enemy would prevail, their King looked down again from his fortress and breathed life anew into the broken body of his son. Taking hold of his second breath, the resurrected Prince loosed a new power upon his gathered subjects. Exhaling life, he gave them a shared inheritance and a whispered promise of his constant presence among them.
“I return to the fortress of my father,” he proclaimed, “but I do not leave you alone. As you partake of the feast I have brought to you, you partake of my position as the beloved son of A Mighty King. I return to my father, but I leave you with hope. I prepare places for each of you within that mighty fortress. I will return for you when my father allows it. Until that day, you must go and share my feast with all who will partake. There are many more subjects who are hungry and will accept this feast. They will not know of it unless you take it and share it with them.” Having said these words, the Prince was drawn back to the King’s fortress, leaving his subjects marveling and gazing on.
Overpowered by the Spirit of their Prince, the subjects quickly went to work, first devouring their feast and then spreading out into the kingdom to share its bounty. Many more subjects were revived and given life because of the feast, and the more they went, the more subjects and more land they reclaimed for the King. This angered the King’s evil foe. Sensing his own imminent defeat, he began a desperate counter-attack. He proposed within his wicked imaginings to set conflict between the subjects. He spread among them with vicious lies and worked to turn them against each other, hoping they would forget their feast. For brief moments, his efforts prevailed, but only in keeping with the King’s purposes. The Prince’s death and resurrection had forever sealed the foe’s defeat and the power of the feast. The King’s subjects learned the enemy’s schemes and promptly sought nourishment from the feast to defeat him. The Mighty King reclaimed his kingdom, one subject at a time, through the power of a feast served in a barren desert.
This parable was originated in response to a writing challenge proposed on www.faithwriters.com and entitled "Picnic."
The foe was successful in many attempts to turn the lush land into a dry, barren dessert. He was victorious in turning many of the King’s subjects against their Supreme Ruler, but the King did not watch long and silently. His purpose was constant and sure. He looked down from his mighty fortress and witnessed the destruction of the land. He heard the cries of his subjects, wrestling with hunger and thirst in the desert, constantly seeking a way to defeat the foe and return to the King. He sent his beloved son, a Prince beyond perfection, with a lavish feast, prepared specifically for each subject, whose names were all known to him before they were born.
The Prince was sent at a great cost. Leaving the fortress and descending to the desert with his feast, he knew that he was entering into the rebellion sickening his father’s land. He knew that he would be offering his own life to the foe in order to bring a feast to the hungry subjects, but such was his pure desire to reclaim what belonged to his father that he cared not for the loss of his own life. He willingly offered it, trusting in the power and faithfulness of his father to rout all enemies. Being sent, the Prince did give his life. His blood was shed by the dark enemy, but just when the subjects of the land believed that all was lost and that the enemy would prevail, their King looked down again from his fortress and breathed life anew into the broken body of his son. Taking hold of his second breath, the resurrected Prince loosed a new power upon his gathered subjects. Exhaling life, he gave them a shared inheritance and a whispered promise of his constant presence among them.
“I return to the fortress of my father,” he proclaimed, “but I do not leave you alone. As you partake of the feast I have brought to you, you partake of my position as the beloved son of A Mighty King. I return to my father, but I leave you with hope. I prepare places for each of you within that mighty fortress. I will return for you when my father allows it. Until that day, you must go and share my feast with all who will partake. There are many more subjects who are hungry and will accept this feast. They will not know of it unless you take it and share it with them.” Having said these words, the Prince was drawn back to the King’s fortress, leaving his subjects marveling and gazing on.
Overpowered by the Spirit of their Prince, the subjects quickly went to work, first devouring their feast and then spreading out into the kingdom to share its bounty. Many more subjects were revived and given life because of the feast, and the more they went, the more subjects and more land they reclaimed for the King. This angered the King’s evil foe. Sensing his own imminent defeat, he began a desperate counter-attack. He proposed within his wicked imaginings to set conflict between the subjects. He spread among them with vicious lies and worked to turn them against each other, hoping they would forget their feast. For brief moments, his efforts prevailed, but only in keeping with the King’s purposes. The Prince’s death and resurrection had forever sealed the foe’s defeat and the power of the feast. The King’s subjects learned the enemy’s schemes and promptly sought nourishment from the feast to defeat him. The Mighty King reclaimed his kingdom, one subject at a time, through the power of a feast served in a barren desert.
This parable was originated in response to a writing challenge proposed on www.faithwriters.com and entitled "Picnic."
Seat Us at Your Banquet Table
It was one of THOSE dreams—the kind that woke him up and left him feeling as if he were still in it--the kind that he knew would stay with him all day, leaving him wondering what had brought it on. As he purposefully arose and began to prepare for the day that he was hoping was the first day of the long-awaited day of change in his circumstances—the all-important interview, he began to relive the dream in his ever-working mind.
He had been seated at his own dining room table. A nameless, faceless someone kept bringing him course after course of beautifully prepared dishes to feed his gnawing hunger. The most beautiful of the dishes were the desserts. Their sugary and gooey drippings thrilled his eyes and made his tongue water, but when he began to eat them, he found that he was unable to take more than just a few bites at a time. Their richness filled his stomach and quickly satiated his hunger, but they didn’t sustain him. In just a few moments, he was hungry again. The most satisfying dishes were the savory ones—the ones that had interesting new flavors that he had never tasted before—the ones that made him want to take another bite and left room in his stomach for more bites. When the server told him he could take seconds of any of the dishes that had been brought, he had chosen from the savory ones. Then, the alarm clock had sounded, and his dream meal came to an end, but he knew the dream would resonate in everything he did that day. After all, it was one of THOSE dreams.
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He watched the tow truck carefully back up to latch hold of his steaming mountain of automobile. He had just ended a phone conversation with the man who had graciously gone out of his way to arrange for the very interview his uncooperative car was preventing him from attending. On the edge of tears, he managed a weak smile for the wiry and sweaty wrecker driver who greeted him.
“You look like you could use a friend.”
“You have no idea,” he replied. They exchanged introductions and quickly went to work attaching the wounded car to the wrecker.
Sitting in the passenger seat as they drove together down the highway to the place he didn’t want to be going, he sighed one of those long sighs that relayed more than words alone could relay.
“Frank, I’m not much for getting into other people’s business, but I can tell when somebody just needs a word,” came gentle admonition from the unassuming driver. “What’s troubling you that’s bigger than this car on the side of the road thing?”
Another sigh and then the dam broke, “It’s been a long six months, Angus. I was laid off from my job, and I’ve had a terrible time finding a new one. I have a wife and three children at home to support. I’m a Christian man, Angus, and I rely on my faith in the Lord to take care of me, but sometimes I wonder. I just wonder what in the world God is doing in my life. It’s hard to see people who have no desire to know God or serve God be successful and get everything they want out of life while my family struggles to get by. It’s hard, Angus, and some days I want to ask the Lord what in the heck is going on . . .”
“I understand, Frank. I understand. Been there, done that, more than once myself. You know what helps me? I’ve learned not to look too much at just one circumstance. I’ve learned to look at all of my life, rolled together. It’s kind of like sitting down to the dinner table. A really good meal has all kinds of tastes in it, all kinds of good stuff to fill us up until it’s time to eat again. Sometimes if we focus on the dessert first or try to fill up on only the sweet stuff, we don’t have room for the really good stuff that will last and put staying power on our bones.”
Frank began to cry because he knew, right then and there, he was getting a taste of something really sweet that also gave him an appreciation for the savory tastes in his life. He knew, too, that he truly had been given one of THOSE dreams.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anoinest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. Psalm 23:5-6
This was written in response to a writing challenge issued on www.faithwriters.com entitled, "A Savory Taste."
He had been seated at his own dining room table. A nameless, faceless someone kept bringing him course after course of beautifully prepared dishes to feed his gnawing hunger. The most beautiful of the dishes were the desserts. Their sugary and gooey drippings thrilled his eyes and made his tongue water, but when he began to eat them, he found that he was unable to take more than just a few bites at a time. Their richness filled his stomach and quickly satiated his hunger, but they didn’t sustain him. In just a few moments, he was hungry again. The most satisfying dishes were the savory ones—the ones that had interesting new flavors that he had never tasted before—the ones that made him want to take another bite and left room in his stomach for more bites. When the server told him he could take seconds of any of the dishes that had been brought, he had chosen from the savory ones. Then, the alarm clock had sounded, and his dream meal came to an end, but he knew the dream would resonate in everything he did that day. After all, it was one of THOSE dreams.
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He watched the tow truck carefully back up to latch hold of his steaming mountain of automobile. He had just ended a phone conversation with the man who had graciously gone out of his way to arrange for the very interview his uncooperative car was preventing him from attending. On the edge of tears, he managed a weak smile for the wiry and sweaty wrecker driver who greeted him.
“You look like you could use a friend.”
“You have no idea,” he replied. They exchanged introductions and quickly went to work attaching the wounded car to the wrecker.
Sitting in the passenger seat as they drove together down the highway to the place he didn’t want to be going, he sighed one of those long sighs that relayed more than words alone could relay.
“Frank, I’m not much for getting into other people’s business, but I can tell when somebody just needs a word,” came gentle admonition from the unassuming driver. “What’s troubling you that’s bigger than this car on the side of the road thing?”
Another sigh and then the dam broke, “It’s been a long six months, Angus. I was laid off from my job, and I’ve had a terrible time finding a new one. I have a wife and three children at home to support. I’m a Christian man, Angus, and I rely on my faith in the Lord to take care of me, but sometimes I wonder. I just wonder what in the world God is doing in my life. It’s hard to see people who have no desire to know God or serve God be successful and get everything they want out of life while my family struggles to get by. It’s hard, Angus, and some days I want to ask the Lord what in the heck is going on . . .”
“I understand, Frank. I understand. Been there, done that, more than once myself. You know what helps me? I’ve learned not to look too much at just one circumstance. I’ve learned to look at all of my life, rolled together. It’s kind of like sitting down to the dinner table. A really good meal has all kinds of tastes in it, all kinds of good stuff to fill us up until it’s time to eat again. Sometimes if we focus on the dessert first or try to fill up on only the sweet stuff, we don’t have room for the really good stuff that will last and put staying power on our bones.”
Frank began to cry because he knew, right then and there, he was getting a taste of something really sweet that also gave him an appreciation for the savory tastes in his life. He knew, too, that he truly had been given one of THOSE dreams.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anoinest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. Psalm 23:5-6
This was written in response to a writing challenge issued on www.faithwriters.com entitled, "A Savory Taste."
Baa Baa Black Sheep with a Gospel Twist
“Baa, Baa Black Sheep” with a Gospel Twist
Baa, baa black sheep have you any wool?
Yes sir, Yes sir, three bags full.
One for my master,
And one for the dame,
And one for the little boy who lives down the lane.
(Mother Goose)
There once was a certain sheepfold in a certain place at a certain time. Within this certain fold, lived a very black sheep. While a lamb, the condition of his wool had never troubled him. In fact, he hadn’t thought of his wool at all. However, as he grew, he began to pay attention to stories about a marvelous Great Shepherd who often came to the gate to choose sheep on shearing day. There was much debate among the sheep about just who this man was and what going with him might mean.
The more Black Sheep heard about the Great Shepherd, the more he wanted to hear. Then, the more he heard, the more he recognized the terrible condition of his wool. He vowed to keep it clean. He began to avoid the kind of rough play in the places of the fold that left his wool clumped by dirt and nettles. He would sleep only in the pure grassy places and graze only with the cleanest sheep. He would ask others for help to extract the stubble that worked in close to his skin, and he would wash himself once--sometimes twice--a day in the stream.
Alas, to his great sorrow, no matter what he tried, Black Sheep could not keep his wool clean, and he most certainly could not change its color. His life became hateful to him, and he longed for a way to be free from demands he could not keep. He marveled at many of the other sheep who constantly bragged about their quality wool. One day he went to a neighbor, imploring, “How do you keep your wool so white?”
“Ah, Black Sheep, you are asking an important question. You aren’t working hard enough, my friend. You have to do all the right things and stay out of all the wrong places.”
“But I HAVE tried that, and it does not seem to change a thing. There is dirt everywhere in this fold, and . . . and no matter how many times I bathe in the stream, my wool remains as black as ever.”
“I don’t know what else to tell you. This is all I know to do. Perhaps, the Great Shepherd will understand. Perhaps, he will know how hard you have tried. When he comes, you can tell him. Maybe that will be good enough.”
Shearing day came. Black Sheep went with the others to the gate, knowing the terrible condition of his wool. His shame was great, but so was his longing to see the Great Shepherd. He knew he wouldn’t be chosen, but he proposed in his heart that seeing the Shepherd might teach him how to keep his wool clean. He lingered at the back, until he heard a voice calling him. It was the voice of the Shepherd.
“Come to me, Black Sheep.”
“He’s going to send me away forever,” he said to himself. “Perhaps, I should hide.” But, he knew running away was not possible; he had to have answers. Black Sheep went forward, his head hanging low, his eyes weeping bitter tears.
“I came for you, today.” Black Sheep felt the words as much as he heard them.
“Oh, Master, my wool is a mess. It is black and dirty. I am so sorry. You deserve more,” Black Sheep cried at the Shepherd’s feet.
It was then that the Master gathered Black Sheep into his arms, declaring, “I am the Great Shepherd. I have always known you, and today I came for you. Know this--all of my sheep have dirty wool. Before, you only heard stories about me. Today, I am carrying you to a new fold and giving you a new name. I used my blood to purchase you. While I gather more of your brothers and sisters and continue to prepare a place for all of you, you will know and love me more and more. I came for you, not your wool. I only take yours so that you can wear mine. One day you’ll have your own again.”
Black Sheep leaned into His Shepherd’s chest and relaxed into cleansing spasms of tears. He knew he was where he belonged. Finally.
Baa, baa black sheep have you any wool?
Yes sir, Yes sir, three bags full.
One for my master,
And one for the dame,
And one for the little boy who lives down the lane.
(Mother Goose)
There once was a certain sheepfold in a certain place at a certain time. Within this certain fold, lived a very black sheep. While a lamb, the condition of his wool had never troubled him. In fact, he hadn’t thought of his wool at all. However, as he grew, he began to pay attention to stories about a marvelous Great Shepherd who often came to the gate to choose sheep on shearing day. There was much debate among the sheep about just who this man was and what going with him might mean.
The more Black Sheep heard about the Great Shepherd, the more he wanted to hear. Then, the more he heard, the more he recognized the terrible condition of his wool. He vowed to keep it clean. He began to avoid the kind of rough play in the places of the fold that left his wool clumped by dirt and nettles. He would sleep only in the pure grassy places and graze only with the cleanest sheep. He would ask others for help to extract the stubble that worked in close to his skin, and he would wash himself once--sometimes twice--a day in the stream.
Alas, to his great sorrow, no matter what he tried, Black Sheep could not keep his wool clean, and he most certainly could not change its color. His life became hateful to him, and he longed for a way to be free from demands he could not keep. He marveled at many of the other sheep who constantly bragged about their quality wool. One day he went to a neighbor, imploring, “How do you keep your wool so white?”
“Ah, Black Sheep, you are asking an important question. You aren’t working hard enough, my friend. You have to do all the right things and stay out of all the wrong places.”
“But I HAVE tried that, and it does not seem to change a thing. There is dirt everywhere in this fold, and . . . and no matter how many times I bathe in the stream, my wool remains as black as ever.”
“I don’t know what else to tell you. This is all I know to do. Perhaps, the Great Shepherd will understand. Perhaps, he will know how hard you have tried. When he comes, you can tell him. Maybe that will be good enough.”
Shearing day came. Black Sheep went with the others to the gate, knowing the terrible condition of his wool. His shame was great, but so was his longing to see the Great Shepherd. He knew he wouldn’t be chosen, but he proposed in his heart that seeing the Shepherd might teach him how to keep his wool clean. He lingered at the back, until he heard a voice calling him. It was the voice of the Shepherd.
“Come to me, Black Sheep.”
“He’s going to send me away forever,” he said to himself. “Perhaps, I should hide.” But, he knew running away was not possible; he had to have answers. Black Sheep went forward, his head hanging low, his eyes weeping bitter tears.
“I came for you, today.” Black Sheep felt the words as much as he heard them.
“Oh, Master, my wool is a mess. It is black and dirty. I am so sorry. You deserve more,” Black Sheep cried at the Shepherd’s feet.
It was then that the Master gathered Black Sheep into his arms, declaring, “I am the Great Shepherd. I have always known you, and today I came for you. Know this--all of my sheep have dirty wool. Before, you only heard stories about me. Today, I am carrying you to a new fold and giving you a new name. I used my blood to purchase you. While I gather more of your brothers and sisters and continue to prepare a place for all of you, you will know and love me more and more. I came for you, not your wool. I only take yours so that you can wear mine. One day you’ll have your own again.”
Black Sheep leaned into His Shepherd’s chest and relaxed into cleansing spasms of tears. He knew he was where he belonged. Finally.
The Weeping Phrophet
“Dr. Newman, I will repeat myself—are you ready to report your findings?”
The young intern straightened in his chair and swallowed back the answer he wanted to give to his esteemed senior colleague. He wanted to tell the truth and confess that his meetings with the old gentleman patient had sunk into a part of himself that they had all been conditioned to deny even existed. He wanted to confess that perhaps the patient wasn’t as delusional as his commitment papers proposed. He wanted to tell the other young men and women seated around the conference table with him that perhaps they would all benefit from further hours of studying and listening to what the gentleman had to say. He wanted to, but as he looked around the room at the combined years of scholarly and practical psychiatric expertise, his courage failed him. Dr. Newman tasted his own fear and pictured himself relegated to the loneliness of a sterile room, labeled as a broken man who had lost all touch with reality. He did not know how to tell what he had learned when he was convinced that no one in the room would believe him.
“Dr. Newman, are you with us today or aren’t you?” Newman’s superior was becoming increasingly impatient with the young doctor’s hesitation.
“I apologize, Sir. I am simply attempting to gather my thoughts on the matter.”
“Why don’t you just start with your notes?”
“Certainly. Yes, that’s a good start. Well, we all know the patient is given to serious bouts of clinical depression. We know he spends much of his time weeping and barking his constant warnings. That is why we have put him in isolation. The other patients simply won’t tolerate him, and no matter what we have tried—apart from the dangerous path of permanent sedation—we cannot persuade him to stop making his predictions.”
“Have you ever witnessed his predictions turning to violent behavior toward the staff or other patients?”
“Oh, no, never. It is true, sometimes he is forceful and loud, but I have also witnessed him pleading with tender tears to be heard. It strikes me as quite curious that not many see that side of him. Definitely, the things he says cause others to immediately shun him, as if his words alone have done them physical harm. If I am to tell the truth, it is the other patients who are a danger to him. In fact, the day I ventured to take him to the common room, and he began delivering his constant messages, in spite of the fact that I begged him not to, was a careless whimsy on my part. One of the more agitated patients actually jumped from the chair where he was playing chess with another patient and ran to Jeremiah and began to pummel him with bare fists before the orderlies had a chance to subdue him.”
“Did your patient fight back?”
“No. Jeremiah cried and began to preach louder.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say the word ‘preach’?”
“Well . . . yes, yes I did. That’s what Jeremiah says he is doing. He says he is preaching to people he knows will not hear him.”
“And that is exactly why he is here. What normal human being would behave in such a way?” came the added comment of a fellow intern.
“Dr. Newman,” the senior colleague began, “according to your hours of observation, what is your next prescribed course of treatment for this most incorrigible patient?”
Dr. Newman wondered if the others could see the twisting conflict he felt. How could he tell them that Jeremiah’s warnings were also laced with beautiful promises for a life beyond imagining? How could he report that some people did hear Jeremiah’s message and were introduced to a hope his colleagues all attempted to deny. How could he share that he now knew Jesus because of Jeremiah?
“For now, it is my suggestion that we leave him right where he is and continue what we have always done. Continue sending young interns to study him. Perhaps someone will be able to break through.” Newman smiled. He knew Jeremiah would not be changed, but he also knew that there might be some young souls who would walk away from him with open eyes thanks to the barkings of a neglected old man. Newman also knew that he wouldn’t always sit in fear of his superiors. Already, the revolt within him had begun.
The young intern straightened in his chair and swallowed back the answer he wanted to give to his esteemed senior colleague. He wanted to tell the truth and confess that his meetings with the old gentleman patient had sunk into a part of himself that they had all been conditioned to deny even existed. He wanted to confess that perhaps the patient wasn’t as delusional as his commitment papers proposed. He wanted to tell the other young men and women seated around the conference table with him that perhaps they would all benefit from further hours of studying and listening to what the gentleman had to say. He wanted to, but as he looked around the room at the combined years of scholarly and practical psychiatric expertise, his courage failed him. Dr. Newman tasted his own fear and pictured himself relegated to the loneliness of a sterile room, labeled as a broken man who had lost all touch with reality. He did not know how to tell what he had learned when he was convinced that no one in the room would believe him.
“Dr. Newman, are you with us today or aren’t you?” Newman’s superior was becoming increasingly impatient with the young doctor’s hesitation.
“I apologize, Sir. I am simply attempting to gather my thoughts on the matter.”
“Why don’t you just start with your notes?”
“Certainly. Yes, that’s a good start. Well, we all know the patient is given to serious bouts of clinical depression. We know he spends much of his time weeping and barking his constant warnings. That is why we have put him in isolation. The other patients simply won’t tolerate him, and no matter what we have tried—apart from the dangerous path of permanent sedation—we cannot persuade him to stop making his predictions.”
“Have you ever witnessed his predictions turning to violent behavior toward the staff or other patients?”
“Oh, no, never. It is true, sometimes he is forceful and loud, but I have also witnessed him pleading with tender tears to be heard. It strikes me as quite curious that not many see that side of him. Definitely, the things he says cause others to immediately shun him, as if his words alone have done them physical harm. If I am to tell the truth, it is the other patients who are a danger to him. In fact, the day I ventured to take him to the common room, and he began delivering his constant messages, in spite of the fact that I begged him not to, was a careless whimsy on my part. One of the more agitated patients actually jumped from the chair where he was playing chess with another patient and ran to Jeremiah and began to pummel him with bare fists before the orderlies had a chance to subdue him.”
“Did your patient fight back?”
“No. Jeremiah cried and began to preach louder.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say the word ‘preach’?”
“Well . . . yes, yes I did. That’s what Jeremiah says he is doing. He says he is preaching to people he knows will not hear him.”
“And that is exactly why he is here. What normal human being would behave in such a way?” came the added comment of a fellow intern.
“Dr. Newman,” the senior colleague began, “according to your hours of observation, what is your next prescribed course of treatment for this most incorrigible patient?”
Dr. Newman wondered if the others could see the twisting conflict he felt. How could he tell them that Jeremiah’s warnings were also laced with beautiful promises for a life beyond imagining? How could he report that some people did hear Jeremiah’s message and were introduced to a hope his colleagues all attempted to deny. How could he share that he now knew Jesus because of Jeremiah?
“For now, it is my suggestion that we leave him right where he is and continue what we have always done. Continue sending young interns to study him. Perhaps someone will be able to break through.” Newman smiled. He knew Jeremiah would not be changed, but he also knew that there might be some young souls who would walk away from him with open eyes thanks to the barkings of a neglected old man. Newman also knew that he wouldn’t always sit in fear of his superiors. Already, the revolt within him had begun.