Valuable

           Dallas was frustrated when he looked out the antique shop’s tiny hand-painted window. He wanted to lock up, but an older man was striding up to the door, moving quickly, as if he already knew that the shop was closing and time was short. Dallas’ fingers itched to take the sign and flip it to “Closed” in front of the older man’s face, but he knew that, as an employee, he didn’t have the power to close the door on customers. He just wanted to be off for the day – start his night life. But this old man – he couldn’t know that. He probably didn’t have much of a night life.

            Dallas moved forward as the little bell tinkled, announcing the old man’s entrance.

            “We’re closing, sir.”

            The old man’s eyebrows lifted. “Really? Are you the owner?”

            “Well, no, but…”

            “Splendid!” The old man relaxed, leaning on the front counter.” You know,” he said, smiling, “I’ll rescue a valuable antique in this store before you flip that sign around.”

            “Really?” Dallas lifted his own eyebrows, chuckling at the old man. The shop had been empty all day and no one had considered any of the merchandise valuable for a couple weeks now. It had been an off-week. Dallas didn’t understand why. Dealers had scrabbled around, paying a pretty penny for almost every item in the store at one time or another. Of course now, there were some things that didn’t look like they’d been hard-won. Take that doll the old man was picking up off the clearance shelf now – Dallas couldn’t even remember where it had been purchased. For goodness sake, it seemed like some of the junk had sat on the shelves since the beginning of the world!

            “This can’t be yours.” The old man remarked confidently, turning the doll over in his hands.

            “Oh, no?” Dallas slowly crossed his arms. Are you implying that I stole it? He thought to himself.

            The old man studied Dallas’ face momentarily and said nothing.

            Dallas looked away, annoyed. He’d had a bad day already. Why couldn’t the old man just leave him alone? He wanted to say, “Go away. You can come back tomorrow. I’ll have my act – and my shop - together by then.”

            The old man was carefully moving the doll’s arms and legs, testing its flexibility. He rearranged the holey wool sweater around the doll’s shoulders and looked into her face. Her skin was smudged and her hair unkempt. She had a hole in her chest and some of her stuffing was missing.

            “Do you know anything about this doll?” he asked with interest.

            You just said it wasn’t even mine. How do you expect me to know anything about it? Dallas wanted to say. Instead, he strained to keep his tone respectful and business-worthy;

            “Not really. Things just come and go. It’s the business world. You know.”

            “Hmm. Every doll has a story, I guess. This one was made by a famous doll maker about nineteen years ago.”

            “It’s only nineteen years old? Wait, how’s it worth anything?” Dallas could hardly contain his disdainful surprise. What lunatic of a dealer paid anything for that?

            “Because there is only one doll.” The man interrupted Dallas’ scornful remark.

            “A famous doll maker who only made one doll? Ridiculous!”

            The man chuckled. “Dear me, no!” he said. “The doll maker has made thousands of dolls, but only one like this. You see, the incredible thing about this doll maker is that he hand-makes every doll so that each one is completely original. No two dolls are ever alike.”

            “Dolls aren’t handmade. Especially not the ones made in the last twenty years.” countered Dallas. “A doll that’s only nineteen years old couldn’t have been handmade. Everything’s done by machines now. Science dominates the factories.” Get with the times, old man!

            The man shrugged. “I know what science does.” He replied. “But see this?” he touched the doll’s face. “This complexion is clay-based. You can’t machine-make this kind of work. It’s hand-workable clay that purifies during a specific baking time in a specialized oven on a high and then a low temperature until it solidifies. And see this,” he lifted the doll’s hair and gently stroked the back of the doll’s neck. “There’s the artist’s fingerprint, implanted very close to the hairline at the nape of the neck. That’s the artist’s trademark.”

            Dallas’ interest piqued a little. He’d never thought of looking for an artistic trademark. He edged closer to the man and peered over his shoulder.

            “But you can’t even see the print!” he spluttered. “It’s smudged! The doll is dirty! And it’s scratched. Obviously, the wrong kind of children played with it for many years.”

            “Maybe.” The man said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the fingerprint is there now, does it?”

            Dallas backed off, unable to reply.

            “Besides,” the old man continued. “The doll maker has another trademark. All of his dolls have very green eyes, just like his. When he’s asked about it, he always says that green is the color of life. He brings them to life, so all his dolls are overflowing with it.”

            Dallas laughed. “That’s a nice thing to say…even though dolls are just pawns. They really have no life. No ability to do anything or change anything.”

            “Really?” the old man probed. “Have you ever seen a little girl hold a doll?” He tilted his head thoughtfully.

            Silence imprinted the question in Dallas’ mind.

“Anyway, they bring me pleasure.” The old man finally continued. “That’s all that matters in the end, right?”

            Dallas shrugged carelessly. “Well, I guess if you want a doll, you can buy it.” Besides, it’s worthless! He thought, looking at the clock. Ugh! It was fifteen minutes past the time he’d wanted to lock up.

            The old man’s eyes followed his gaze. “Why are you so worried about the time?” he asked, keeping his hand on the doll. “I bet I have a busier night life than you.”

            “Oh, I don’t care.” Dallas shrugged, feigning disinterest. He strode over to the cash register. He had one-upped the old geyser into buying a cheap trinket. “Since you love the doll so much, it’ll be $200 for you.”  

            The old man smiled. “It’s already on my son’s account.”

            “Er, wha..” Dallas started.

            “I gave him this shop years ago.” The old man said. Leaning close, he whispered; “He’s your boss.”

            Stammering, Dallas looked up just in time to see the old man wink. He suddenly realized that the old man’s eyes were blindingly green.  

 

 

Six-Word Challenge

Based on Ernest Hemingway's six-word story (For sale: baby shoes, never worn), I am challenging my senior college and highschool friends to create a six-word story about their four years in college or highschool. These words can capture something you learned, something you became or something funny. For examples, see mine below. If you speak are bilingual, you can post in Spanish and in English (you don't have to translate your comment... I know the translation isn't always exact). If you are not a highschool or college senior (but you remember your highschool/college years and you would like to comment), please add your voice. too. Please post in the comments of my blog.

Examples: I learned I'd never know everything.
                  Looking back, I see I've changed.
                  Ahora estoy lista, emocionada y cansada.

Switching Trains

It wasn’t the first time I’d taken that train when I woke up at 5am today –
and, like every day, I bought a ticket for the early trip
and left in the morning, going backward.
I didn’t intend to be traveling backward – I never do –
but I asked one passenger which way the train was facing
 – he pointed –
then, I noticed his glasses slipping off his nose,
his upside-down newspaper.
His shirt was inside-out.
I didn’t follow his finger.
Dare I trust an idiot’s directions?

Not many people talk on the early morning train, going backward.
The wrong corners of buildings appear first.
I never see the warning signs.
The trees run away.
It’s dizzying – so dizzying
but it mesmerizes me into complacency –
I just stay there.

Moving is admitting a mistake.
Switching seats screams for stares.
And, in the awkward train jolts of the uneven aisle, I might
fall.
I might drop my baggage.
My precious things might break; my neatly-foldeds might spill into plain sight.
Never!
No, I have to stay there, whizzing backward, ashamed to turn around.

She has moved. Very gracefully, it seems.
Baggage all intact, she sits across from me, facing forward.
She smiles.
I put one on, too.
Eye to eye to eye to eye.
Our knees knock.
She smiles again.
I take mine off.

It’s awkward to be face-to-face with a forward passenger
when I'm going backward.
I try not to look up and meet her eyes.
She obviously asked intelligent questions.
Listened.
I was the idiot.
She says, cheerily, “I get off at the next stop. You?”
“I don’t.”
And then, she’s gone, baggage still intact.

Another woman gets on and sits next to me.
She obviously doesn’t mind the early morning train,
going backward.
She doesn’t speak, but I’m satisfied. She is like me.
Our minds have married into the dizziness
mesmerizing our synopses, clipping and reattaching the grey brain matter.  
“What do you take the train for?” she asks.
I was happy with quiet, but now I say, confidently,
“I always take this train.”
She is happy with quiet now.

By and by, she says,
“I get mental treatments at the hospital.
I’m dying.
I have to take this train.”
I am suddenly startled with the quiet.
Our minds have not married.
She has to be here?
Don’t we all choose to board?

I tug the conductor’s sleeve.
“Do I have a ticket for tomorrow’s train, too?”
Do I have to stay here?
He’s confused.
“You buy the tickets. I just run the train.”
He turns around and continues running the train.
I’m sick of seeing the trees avoid me.
The odd corners are wrong.
I want to read the signs.

Dizzy, I get up and walk toward the bathroom.
With my hands, I turn the faucet on.
I splash water on my face.
Head down. 
When I look in the mirror, I see
water droplets sparkling down my cheeks,
catching on my bangs, plinking into the sink like diamonds in a wishing well,
slipping down the drain.
Gone.
The mirror tells me that my glasses are sliding off my nose.
My hat is backward.
I’m only wearing one earring.

The train stops.
I grab my baggage because I’m getting off.
“Watcha doing?” the conductor shouts, angrily.
He tries to grab my arm.
“We’ll take-off again!”

I have switched. Very ungracefully, it seems. 
I’m on another train now, trembling. 
I’ve dropped a suitcase - it just fell from my watery hands.
My clothes unfolded.
Something broke.

Stumbling around, I hear,
“You may not want to stand there.”
Pushing my glasses up my nose, I see
a Man lay down his LIFE magazine.
“You’d be standing backward.” He says.
I can’t speak.
“Are these your things?” He bends down to pick up
my baggage.
He doesn’t flinch at the weight, the missing,
the broken.
He says, “Your ticket is for the next stop.
Sit close to Me.
I’ll take your baggage.”

 

 

The Fastest Way to Ruin Your Christian Testimony

Proverbs 4:7

“Wisdom is the principle thing; therefore, get wisdom. In all your getting, get understanding.”

During my last year of college, I’ve struggled constantly with pride. I should say I am struggling because I’m still in my last year of college. This fall, I asked God to remove my pride, and our conversation went something like this:

Dear God, I know I’m proud. I want you to make me humble because it would be really embarrassing to brag about something only to be wrong or make a mistake. Amen.

It was a little longer than that, I think, but that was the just of it.

A month later, I got convicted with how my prayer was dripping with pride. My premise was that I didn’t want to have pride because I was too proud to be wrong and get embarrassed in front of everyone. With that thought in mind, I amended my prayer:

Dear God, my prayer about pride was really proud. You’re showing me that this is a real problem in my life, even in areas in which I don’t even recognize it. In any way possible, please make me humble…

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to take them back.

I guess we’ve all heard the “Christian Horror Stories”. You know, the ones about Christians who prayed for humility and found themselves mortified in front of the universe, wishing they could disintegrate into the surrounding oxygen, promising never to fall prey to pride again because of an embarrassing situation in which they were wrong. Somewhere in the middle, I think, they all say, “And it was funny because I was just praying that God would grant me humility.” They tell other Christians this story as a testimony of God working in their lives.

Let me be clear. I’m not saying those stories are bad things. These thoughts were just on the first train that blew into my mind following my prayer.

Throughout the next months, all the little red flags went up. I viciously avoided bragging, interrupting people mid-compliment to plaster someone else with the credit and over zealously ignoring any part I’d played in anything good. Basically, I was missing the point.

Under further conviction, and in a desperate attempt to curb my pride, I started a study on wisdom. Proverbs implies that wisdom and pride are in complete opposition to each other. Since “the fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom,” the wise person knows his or her in-the-dust position before God (Proverbs 9:10). This verse states that wisdom is impossible without a relationship with God. It’s God who gives wisdom. In turn, like the verses at the top of this page, God-given wisdom brings respect and honor to the life of the person who requests it. Wise people have no need to brag on themselves – they realize that there’s nothing to brag about (Psalm 144:3).  

I guess it goes without saying that I started to pray for wisdom and continued to pray for humility.  

However, pride is a funny thing. It often attacks you where you actually can legitimately prove yourself (or at least you think you can), not areas in which you already know you lack skill. For example, I never brag about anything musical. Studying at a university with a good music program means that I am surrounded by fantastic musicians. Sure, I can play the piano and the French horn, and I love singing and writing my own music, but I never walk around with a chip on my shoulder. Any freshman in the Piano Pedagogy program could play three inversions of scales with the correct figuring before I even figured out whether to cross my third finger or my fourth finger during the scale in order to avoid hitting a black key with my thumb.

No, pride strikes where you’re sure you have it all together. Where you kind of forget about God because you think you can practically do whatever it is in your sleep. Where you’ve convinced yourself that it’s your knowledge and study and time and effort that has finally paid off. You may receive multiple compliments for your skills in this particular area. You may think, “I’m not bragging. I can do ____________ very well. Everybody knows it. It’s a fact.”

Personally, I know that I struggle with these thoughts in certain areas of my life. I’m not going to tell you the areas in which I struggle with pride simply because it would only be my pride inviting you to agree that I do excel in these areas. That would defeat the purpose of learning this lesson.

God did touch this area of my life recently. Yes, I was mortified. I did wish I could physically dissolve into thin air. I did make a ton of promises. At long last, I fell on my knees and prayed. I wish I’d done that first.

The truth is, God is the giver of wisdom. All wisdom. All knowledge, too. He created it. We know that, but we don’t act like we do. We act like it was our years of study and interest that took such amazing strides. We forget that He created everything. The only reason we can have any knowledge about anything is because He gives it to us. He wants us to know!

Sometimes I think He laughs because He’s put it in such an easy spot to reach, yet we can’t even come close to it without His help. Sometimes I laugh with Him because I can’t believe how feeble I am.

On a more serious note, pride is the fastest way to ruin our testimony as Christians. Simply put, pride removes God. Pride tells God that we may have once needed Him in this area of our life, but now, oh man, now, we’ve arrived!

Sometimes it tells Him that we haven’t needed Him all along.

Personally, I think that is why God has to touch the areas where we think we are strong in order to humble us.

If we’re proud Christians, we’re acting just as bad as unsaved individuals; we have refused to recognize our need for God as Lord in our life in that area in the same way unsaved people refuse to recognize God as Lord of their lives.

In fact, we are acting even worse because, in most cases, we have far more knowledge of God and of our condition before Him than unsaved individuals, yet we refuse to apply that knowledge. Even if it is only in one area of our life, pride destroys our testimony. It utterly devastates our witness.

Maybe we should be telling other Christians, “And it was serious because I was ruining my testimony by refusing to recognize God as Lord in that area of my life.”



Short and Sweet

I don’t think I’ve told you how much I like the English language, have I?

Well, sometimes it’s hard to get a reason that sticks…

Hmm, let me try to narrow down my reason to one word: jam.

You just re-read that word, right?

Ten points for paying attention.

Here’s why this one word represents what I like about the English language:

You see, you can jam a finger and have toe jam at the same time, but the two have nothing in common other than their location in one of your extremities. You can have and eat strawberry jam (I recommend it with peanut butter on whole wheat bread) without worrying about consuming a finger or a toe. Jam has nothing to do with cannibalism.

If you’re jamming at a party, you’re probably having a great time. But if you’re jamming junk into storage containers or jamming a suitcase into the overhead on your flight, you’re probably having a horrible time.

Despite what you might think, being stuck in a jam doesn’t mean you’re surrounded by smushed fruit. You might be on a plane or at a party, but the jam would probably have nothing to do with the overhead storage or the choice of music.   

Then there are paper jams, which are by far one of the worst possible things that can happen when you're running late for a class, and you have an essay due that day.

If you are running late for class, traffic jams can cause problems, too. And those kinds of jams have nothing to do with strawberries or fingers. Or blackberries or toes. Or parties or flying.

Have I ever told you how much I like the English language?