Implosion Pending

The words come harder now. Like so many other things in my life. They are there, hidden beneath layers of insecurity. Like bubbles of air, fighting their way to the surface of a thick and sticky substance, the words get stuck somewhere in between the feeling and the expression, the private 'inner' and the public 'outer.'

Stillness on the outside, raging turmoil within. Never silent, never quiet, never peaceful, the thoughts race round and round inside my mind. Sometimes more slowly, other times at light speed, careening here and there, back and forth, up and down.

Chaos.

There are moments of crystal clarity. Moments when the possibility of expression collides with circumstance. Moments when expression happens and is rejected and refused. Moments when expression happens and pain is the result.

Two things I have always known I am. One is intelligent and the other, well, it naturally declines with age at an alarming rate and there is nothing I can do about that. Intelligent collides with some around me and that collision leaves me confused. Reclusive. Tired. On the verge of depression.

I am what I am. There are some things about me that cannot change. Will not change. Some things just make a person who they are, and this is one of them. Intelligent is who I am – must I be unintelligent to be acceptable? I refuse that completely.

If I offend because I am intelligent – is that my fault? I struggle internally. I am a questioner. I do not accept things simply because someone tells me they are true. I look for underlying reasons. I look behind the obvious. I seek the truth – not what is shown.

Masks. My world is filled with masks. I am an unmasker by nature. I seek the truth behind the obvious. And that makes some very uncomfortable. My inner self shouts to the heavens: “Tough beans! Get over it. Your reaction is not my problem!” My inner self whispers: “I am not acceptable. I am not worth anything. There is something wrong with me that must be destroyed, corrected, deleted – Find it and do so!”

So many things right now to deal with. Emotions. Physical limitations. Age. Changes that I cannot control or reverse or refuse. This one thing more is a pebble dropped that causes a finely balanced rock to tip and teeter toward the edge.

I am on the verge of implosion. I have been here before. I have imploded in the past.

I do not want to go there.

I am terrified.

Unable to cry out to my heavenly Father, I reach out in the dark and ask Him to hold my hand. I cannot cry out to those around me – that is not permissible or desirable. I will not cry out to those around me because the judgment is too severe. The assumptions that will be made are not correct and I have not the strength to correct them. No one asks “why?” No, I am the one who asks that question and am verbally slammed – the pebble drops and the other person never takes the time or care to discern.

I am very tired. The struggle is difficult. It is lonely. Only my husband catches a glimpse of it here and there. The struggle is private, not to be shared with those who do not, can not, will not understand. Those who can and do understand can help only to an extent. Yes, it is very private.

And very, very lonely.

Father God in heaven, I praise you and thank you that you did not leave me alone in this, but that you give me your Word, in flesh and in print.

A song. A psalm of the Sons of Korah. For the director of music. According to mahalath leannoth. A maskil of Heman the Ezrahite.
O LORD, the God who saves me,
day and night I cry out before you.
May my prayer come before you;
turn your ear to my cry.

For my soul is full of trouble
and my life draws near the grave.

I am counted among those who go down to the pit;
I am like a man without strength.

I am set apart with the dead,
like the slain who lie in the grave,
whom you remember no more,
who are cut off from your care.

You have put me in the lowest pit,
in the darkest depths.

Your wrath lies heavily upon me;
you have overwhelmed me with all your waves.
Selah

You have taken from me my closest friends
and have made me repulsive to them.
I am confined and cannot escape;

my eyes are dim with grief.
I call to you, O LORD, every day;
I spread out my hands to you.

Do you show your wonders to the dead?
Do those who are dead rise up and praise you?
Selah

Is your love declared in the grave,
your faithfulness in Destruction?

Are your wonders known in the place of darkness,
or your righteous deeds in the land of oblivion?

But I cry to you for help, O LORD;
in the morning my prayer comes before you.

Why, O LORD, do you reject me
and hide your face from me?

From my youth I have been afflicted and close to death;
I have suffered your terrors and am in despair.

Your wrath has swept over me;
your terrors have destroyed me.

All day long they surround me like a flood;
they have completely engulfed me.

You have taken my companions and loved ones from me;
the darkness is my closest friend.
Psalm 88

Little Birds - A Metaphor

A Metaphor, by Columbine

(I like metaphors. I often think in metaphors. I like to teach in metaphors, too.)

A naughty boy threw a rock at a bird’s nest, high up in a tree. The nest fell to the ground and the little birds inside fell out upon the ground.

Two of the little birds were hurt very badly and died immediately. Another had a broken wing and a badly twisted leg. The last little bird had landed on his little siblings and was simply traumatized by the experience.

The mama and papa birds flew back to the tree, looked down at their nest on the ground and then flew away.

A nice lady had been walking through the park and saw the boy knock the nest from the tree. She quickly ran over and scolded him before he could do more damage. As the boy slouched away, she bent over the nest and saw the two little live birds.

I will take these two home, she said to herself, and make them whole again. So, she gently picked them up, placed them in the remains of the nest and carried them home.

She splinted the broken wing and carefully straightened the twisted leg. The little bird sat quietly, only trying to escape when the pain became too much. The second little bird huddled closely next to his sibling, trying to hide under her good wing.

The lady cared for the birds day after day. She called around and found out what kind of food was best for them. She read all she could. She checked the broken wing and the damaged leg daily, cleaning them when needed and changing the bandage. She talked softly to the traumatized little bird, petting it gently on the head and trying to get it to trust her completely, yet he still huddled close to his sister and refused her attempts.

Many days later, the lady took the bandage off the birds’ wing and leg. She felt along the top of the wing and sadly discovered a little lump where the bones had not set correctly. When the little bird tried to hop around the nest, her damaged leg gave out after a few tries. The other little bird ventured away from his sister for a few minutes, but soon scurried back.

This little bird with damaged wing should fly now, thought the lady. She held the bird up on her hand and commanded it to fly. With one undamaged leg and foot, the little bird hung tightly to her finger. She flapped her wings and one wing straightened out beautifully. The other wing drooped and fluttered weakly.

I’ll give you more time, thought the lady, and put the little bird back into the nest beside her brother.

Several days later, the lady again took the traumatized little bird in her hand. “You need to fly, little bird! I have fed you, I have taken care of you and now it is time to fly away and live the life God meant birds to live.” The little bird flew away. She took the hurt little bird in her hand and said, “You need to fly, little bird! I have fed you, I have taken care of your injuries, you need to exercise those muscles and fly again!”

The little bird clung tightly to her finger with one foot, flapped her wings as hard as she could, and then took off in flight. A moment later, she fell to the floor. Righting herself, she hopped unsteadily away from the lady, one leg and foot barely touching the ground, one wing dragging and almost all of her weight balanced on the good wing and leg.

Day after day the lady tried to make the little bird fly. The bad wing grew stronger, but the lump remained under the feathers, causing the muscles to be weak and unable to function properly. The little leg began to wither. The little bird bravely flapped her wings and dragged herself from place to place, eating and drinking what she needed.

Finally the lady said to the bird, “You are a bird and birds are supposed to fly. I have done all I can for you but you refuse to change, you refuse to fly. This is all your fault. If you would just try harder, you could do it! Other birds have had broken wings and have learned to fly again. Why don’t you? What is wrong with you? Look at your brother! He flew away. I am tired of you. I give up. You must change and fly away. I cannot deal with you any more. I am tired of trying to help you. Goodbye.”

And the lady took the little bird and set her out on the picnic table in the yard. The little bird hopped out of the nest and on to the table, fluttered down to the bench and finally out on to the ground.

A big black cat sat in the next yard, yellow eyes focused intently on the little bird, muscles tensed.

As the lady went back into her house, silently he pounced.

Later that afternoon the lady went out into her yard. There on the ground were several feathers, scattered around beneath the picnic table.

“I told that little bird it needed to learn to fly!” was all she said as she shook her head sadly.

~*~*~*~
And so I ask myself – what should the lady have done? Left the little birds to die all alone in their broken nest, at the hands of the little boy or of starvation or preying animals? Was it realistic of her to expect that the bird would be able to fly if she just did everything she could to heal it? If the bird was physically healthy again, did that guarantee that it would be a normal regular bird or is it realistic to expect that severe physical or psychological damage will leave lasting scars?

I know a little bird. Actually, I know a lot of little birds. Some of them are more damaged than others. Some have been knocked out of their nest in the tree. Others have had feathers pulled out by mean little boys or girls. Some have gone through hurricane force winds or snow storms that have frozen parts of their bodies and left them crippled. Some have internal parasites that eat away at their strength day by day and no one can see what is causing them to weaken.
We look at the little birds in our life and we wonder why they can’t just “get over it” – I mean, really! Other birds have just “gotten over it.” Even I have just gotten over it a few times in my own life.

But I was never knocked out of my nest. I never fell and had a broken wing or twisted leg. I have gone through hurricane winds and freezing storms and I also have damage, but I have the resources I needed at the time the hurricane or storm was happening that I could protect myself at least to some degree. I have spent time in the hospital, going through a regime of healing, under professional care by people who really knew what they were doing. I had good advice and spiritual guidance from the day I was born.

Almost none of the little birds I know here have had even half of what I had, and took for granted, the whole time I was growing up.

I wonder how the little birds I know manage to live day by day. How do they survive? There are so many cats and dogs and foxes and eagles out there, just waiting to pounce. And little birds, if they are not quick enough, or strong enough, or protected enough, those little birds will die.

The strange thing is, sometimes when you try to help these little birds, they react in fear and anger, pecking at you, chirping loudly, making themselves as unlovely or as unlovable as they can, or trying as hard as they can to drag themselves away.

My heart aches for the little birds I know.

My responsibility is to help those little birds survive. Give them good food to eat, a warm place to rest and recuperate, encouragement, exercise, discipline, love.

And the greatest of these is love.

~*~*~*~
Love
New Testament Christianity is the human response to the revelation of the Creator as the God of love. Out of love for those who did not love, the Father gave the Son, the Son gave His life, and the Father and Son together have sent the Spirit, to save sinners from misery and lead them into glory. Believing in and being overwhelmed by this amazing reality of divine love sustains the love for God and neighbor that the two great commandments require (Matt. 22:35-40). Our love expresses our gratitude for God’s gracious love to us, and imitates it as a model (Eph. 4:32-5:2; I John 3:16).

The indispensable mark of Christian life is Christian love. The measure and test of love to God is whole-hearted obedience (John 14:15, 21, 23; I John 5:3); the measure and test of love to our neighbors is laying down our lives for them (I John 3:16; cf. John 15:12, 13). This sacrificial love involves giving, spending, and impoverishing ourselves for their well-being. Jesus’ story of the Samaritan’s kindness to a traditional enemy is the model definition of how to love one’s neighbor (Luke 10:25-37).

Christian love is described in 1 Corinthians 13. Its total lack of self-concern is breathtaking. It seeks the neighbor’s good, and its true measure is how much it gives to that end. Love is a principle of action rather than of emotion. It is a matter of doing things for people out of compassion for them, whether or not we feel personal affection for them. It is by their active love to one another that Jesus’ disciples can be recognized (John 13:34, 35).

From The New Geneva Study Bible

Battle

by Columbine

She fought for you that night.

They tell her it was just a dream. Or maybe a hallucination brought on by the medications she was taking. But she knows different, and no one will ever convince her otherwise.

She fought for you that night.

And she lost.

Lying in bed in the middle of the darkest part of the night, a crack appeared between this world and the spiritual world. Without warning there before her she saw you. Like the paintings of headless people-candles in Odessa City Park, she saw you. Ghostly pale blue head, a black flame slowly burning down, down, down to the top of your black shirt, you began to disappear. Horrified, she immediately began to pray for you, to fight for you against the Darkness.

As she prayed, a shadow appeared and slowly began to envelope you. She cried out to God the Father and Lord Jesus Christ. “Send your angels of light to protect him! Remove the Darkness, Father! Protect him!”

But she was weak. Tired, spiritually empty, recovering from surgery, confused by pain medication, terrified. She cried out over and over, pleading for the Light. And nothing happened.

Slowly the Darkness covered you. A swirling vortex at your feet, sucking you down into nothingness, you disappeared from sight.

“Take it away! Father in Heaven, take away this vision! I am too weak, I am powerless, You do not hear me! Protect this young man, Father. Send your angles of Light to protect him. I am too tired to continue. Forgive me, Father. Forgive me, my brother in Christ and adopted spiritual son. Forgive me.”

She didn’t know how long she prayed, how long she cried out in her spirit for your protection, for your actual physical life. She only knew that she fought against the powers of Darkness for you – and lost.

She feared for your physical life as much as she feared for your spiritual life. Several days later she heard that someone had finally talked to you, that you were still alive. She breathed a sigh of relief and a prayer of thanksgiving to the Father.

They tell her it was just a dream, a terrible hallucination brought on by the drugs she was taking. But she knows different. So many times she had heard it said that drugs open the mind to other realities – she believes that now.

Never, never again does she want to go there. To touch even the slightest edge of the cloak of evil. Searing pain in her spirit and emotions. She will never be quite the same again. She did not see the face of the Darkness, no, that she could not have survived. But Darkness she touched and fought against in the midnight hours.

She fought for you that night. And lost – at least partially. You disappeared, covered in Darkness, swirling down into the depths of despair. But you are still alive.

Yet – she is reminded that it is not her battle alone. Yes, she fought for you, and although she could not see at that time, Someone greater than her was fighting for you as well. She was so very weak, but He is strong. He alone held you, protected you from the ultimate evil, saved you.

Why was she called to pray for you, to fight for you that night? She may never know. And that is ok. It is not her responsibility to keep you safe, but it is her responsibility to pray for you. She will continue to pray for you as you continue down this path you have chosen.

She does not understand your decisions, nor does she really approve of them. But again, that is not her responsibility. Our Father holds you tightly in the palm of His hand, protects you, loves you, and even though she do not understand it all, guides you in your decisions.

She has to rest in that.

She fought for you that night. She hated the fight – she was traumatized by the fight. But she rejoices that you are still alive. She rejoices that you are still our Fathers child and always will be.

Father in Heaven, forgive her weakness, continue to protect this young man, thank you that the Light will always overcome the Darkness.

A Metaphor

by Columbine

The rock is very hot against my face. I take another deep breath, and let it out slowly in a long sigh. My eyes are still tightly closed, but I do not need to open them to know the nothingness that surrounds me on all but one side.

The rock is very rough against my face. I am sure it is leaving a permanent mark on my cheek. I can do nothing at this point to stop the damage from happening. I press myself more heavily against it and wonder what I will look like if I ever get out of this situation.

I smell the rock. With every breath I smell its heat, minerals evaporating molecule by molecule in the intense light of the sun. I take a deep breath and breathe in the essence of the rock. It is becoming a part of me. I am becoming a part of it.

With all my senses on high alert I also smell the blood. My fingertips are raw and the open wounds sting as dust and grit work their way deeper into the lacerations on every tip. My fingers hold on to the tiny crack in the rock above me, gripping so tightly I wonder if I will ever be able to straighten them again. My arms are scratched and bruised.

My toes are numb. Many hours ago I could still feel them, jammed as tightly as possible into the small space provided by a ledge just two inches wide. The full weight of my body now rests on that small space. My legs begin to cramp and shake in exhaustion.

I am in agony.

The words of a Psalm run through my mind.

“He leads me beside still waters.”

I laugh. I laugh out loud. Still waters. When was the last time I saw water, much less still waters? I remember struggling through a bog some time ago. Perhaps that is the still waters the Psalm refers to? But my memory is of brackish water, unfit to drink. Of pulling my foot out of the mud and the muck with a sucking sound, of dragging it a few inches ahead, stepping down through the filthy water and feeling it sink deep as I shift my weight to pull the other foot free. Still waters. Yes. Very still. With lots of mosquitoes and black flies buzzing around and taking nips at any exposed skin. I laugh again, a dry croaking laugh, empty of mirth.

“He makes me lie down in green pastures.”

I remember the green pastures. Soft breezes, flitting butterflies, beautiful wild flowers, a place to sit, relax and rest. A time of renewal. Green pastures – how I miss you. But I cannot think of you right now. The pain of remembrance is too deep and I cannot handle it while hanging here against this rock. I will think of you at a later time, when the pain is less inside my mind.

Another Psalm flits through my mind.

“I lift up my eyes to the hills.”

Ah, those hills! I saw them in the distance and thought them beautiful. Mountains, really, jutting high into the deep blue sky. Some of them were covered in snow and gleamed brightly in the morning sunlight. Yes, I lifted my eyes to the hills – and there they were! Ever ahead of me, a goal to reach one day. I had never doubted that I would reach them, never doubted that there would be a way through them when that time came. Yes, I always knew that they would be difficult, but I never doubted that there would be a way, a pass, a trail marked clearly for me that I could follow. I never dreamed of what truly awaited me.

“Where does my help come from?”

My help… Can I call this ‘help?’ Is this really what it is? If this is ‘help,’ then what is ‘hindrance?’

I cling to the face of the rock. I know a thin scarlet cable stretches below me and if I gather enough courage to open my eyes for a second or two, I can see it stretching just an inch or two above my fingers. I know that my carabiners are securely fastened to this cable. I know that the cable is firmly secured to the rock. I just have no idea where this cable goes from here. Do I really want to follow it? Now, after leading me to this place where I am hanging on for dear life, can I go on?

I am afraid. I do not want to be here. I never asked to be here. I never dreamed I would be here. I did everything I could in my own power to keep from being here. Yet – I am here, clinging to the face of this rock wall, high above the valley floor, with no end of the climb in sight. I taste fear as I have never tasted it before.

I am also angry. I have never been this angry before. I am sure that anyone looking at me would never guess that my greatest emotion right now is anger. Yes fear, but definitely not mixed with excitement or boredom – just a lot of anger. Anger rages inside of me, my face against the rock hot in the midday sun. I keep my eyes closed as I keep my face tight against the rock, taking shallow breaths, fingers clinging, toes pushing.

I rage.

I have been betrayed.

I first saw the scarlet cable when I was a child. My parents had told me about it, I had heard about it from other people. Then one day, there it was in plain view to me as well. The cable fascinated me, called me by name, took me for its own. I spent many happy years following the cable. It led me over hills, across creeks, through gardens, down country lanes and city streets. True, I could never see it more than just a few feet ahead, but I never doubted that wherever it led, I would be happy I had followed. Many times I turned to look behind and saw the way I had traveled and felt peaceful. I tested my carabiners several times and each time found them to be securely latched around the cable. Sunshine and clouds, snow and rain, heat and cold – the carabiners and cable never failed me.

It never failed me, but I became careless and spent too much time looking around and not following it attentively.

One day, I was looking at the mountains, valleys and plains ahead, wondering where my cable would lead me. I took a step, came down on a lose rock and twisted my knee. Pain. Unbelievable pain shot up and down my leg. It was several days before I could put my weight upon it again. I have a permanent limp with pain as a reminder.

Another time, a few months later, at evening, I took a step, slipped and fell. I fell a long way, down and down and down. The valley was very deep and very dark. I landed with a thud on soft ground, the air knocked out of me for several moments. Darkness surrounded me and it took a few minutes to figure out where I was. I felt for the harness at my waist and found it secure. My fingers traveled up the lead rope to the carabiners and found them still securely fastened to the cable. I remember breathing a sigh of relief, tears cascading down my face.

It took a long time to climb out of that valley. The day I broke out over the ridge I rejoiced. Sunshine! Birds singing once again. I wept with joy.

Soon after my path grew steeper with large rocks blocking it at times. I scrambled over or around the rocks, wherever the cable led. Until one day I came face to face with the rock wall.

I could not believe my eyes. The cable turned straight up at that point. I could see its route farther than usual, straight up the rock wall for several feet. The cable and the wall disappeared up into a mist.

I knew this cable. At least I thought I knew and understood it. The cable had never let me down before. Oh, yes, I had twisted my knee and I limped, but the cable was there for me to hold on to at all times. I had fallen into the valley, but even in the dark I could follow the cable. It had always been securely in my reach as well as securely fastened to my waist.

But I am afraid of heights. I am terrified of heights. Follow the cable at this point – how could I do this? My knee was weak and painful. I felt sick with fear. I closed my eyes and took a step closer to the rock. Reaching out I felt for and found hand holds for my fingers. I reached up, stepped up and began to climb.

It has been several months now, and here I am. I am no nearer the top. I can no longer see the bottom. My whole life is the rock. The sun beating on my back and head. The cable between my body and the rock. The hated cable. It is the fault of the cable that I am in this situation. I would never have climbed up here by myself. But now I have no choice.

So, I cling to the rock. I rage at the rock. I rage at the cable. I tremble in exhaustion and fear. I have little hope of ever reaching a top. My only hope is the cable that holds me fast. My only hope is at what I rage.

Still waters. Green pastures. Rest. I laugh at the irony – pressed here against the rock, afraid to go forward, unable to go back. Nothing below me, nothing above me, nothing beside me, nothing behind me. Every nerve in my body focused on the cable and the rock.

I weep.

Eyes still closed, I reach out my right hand and feel for a handhold a few millimeters higher.

A Metaphor

by Columbine

The first time the girl became aware of the Mirror, she was very young. The Mirror hung on the wall, just out of reach for a year or more, but as time passed she realized that she could see the top of her head, and later, her forehead. Soon she could jump up and catch a glimpse, just for a moment, of her whole face.

A few more years went by and the girl saw herself in the Mirror, from head to toe. She was pleased with what she saw reflected back to her. Tall and shapely, a smile on her face and a sparkle in her eye.

Every day she looked at herself in the Mirror and marveled at what she saw. She was very aware that not all of the young women around her were as pleased with what they saw in their Mirrors. She thanked her father, the King, for creating in her the self-confidence she had because of her assurance of his wonderful love and acceptance of her.

One day the King came to her and said, “I have another gift for you, my daughter. This gift is for you, and you alone, no one else has anything exactly like it. Take care of this gift and treasure it. Remember my love for you whenever you look at it or use it.”

The King opened the box, took out a golden circlet and placed it on her head. “This is a symbol of my love for you. Wear it every day and always remember – I love you.” He placed the box in her arms.

The box was made of intricately carved wood, beautiful to touch and look at. It was very heavy and she carefully carried it back to her room and set it down beside the mirror. She opened the latch on the front of the box and slowly lifted the lid.

Her eyes grew wide with wonder as she gazed at the gold inside. “Thank you, Father,” she whispered, and slowly drew out a gold necklace. The necklace was made of tiny rosy gold feathers fastened together with links of copper gold. She held it in her hand and tested it weight. She lifted it and poured the necklace into her other hand, like a stream of golden water. A few grains of sand fell from between the links and glittered on her palm. She took the necklace and with her fingers brushed the sand back into the box. She stood and looked at herself in the Mirror, holding the necklace against her body, turning this way and that, and then fastened it around her neck.

“Thank you, Father!” she whispered. Her eyes sparkled with joy as she gazed at herself. A circlet of gold around her head, the golden feathers lying softly against her breast – she looked at herself and a shiver of pure delight tingled through her, from head to toe. “I am happy,” she thought. “What better gift could my father have given me? None! Look how beautiful I am in this!” Late that night she took the necklace from her neck and placed it carefully on the bed of sand in the box. She took the golden circlet from her head and laid it carefully next to the necklace. Softly she shut the lid and closed the latch.

The next morning the young woman’s first thought was of the box and of the golden necklace lying inside, safe and secure. She quickly rose, dressed and brushed her hair in front of the Mirror. She opened the box and there lay the circlet, but the necklace was gone. In its place was a golden bracelet, more beautiful than the necklace had been. In great delight, the young woman took the circlet and placed it on her head. Then reaching into the box, she took the bracelet and fastened it around her wrist. A few grains of sand fell unnoticed on her wrist and clung to her skin. The bracelet was heavy. Each time she moved her arm she remember her Father’s words, “I love you.” She stood in front of the mirror, looked at herself and smiled. “I am loved!” she whispered to herself. “I am loved and I am beautiful because of it! Thank you, Father!”

This continued day after day, year after year. Each evening she placed the circlet and the golden jewelry back into the box. Each morning she opened the box, took the circlet and placed it on her head. Every morning, without fail, another golden article was there for her to wear. Sometimes it was another necklace. Other times it was a heavy golden ring, or an ankle bracelet or earrings or another bracelet for her arm.

Sometime later, the woman became aware that other women in the palace envied her because of the golden jewelry. She knew that robbers could break in and steal her box. She talked to her Father, the King, about this possibility. He assured her that it would always be guarded, that he had set his soldiers around the palace and no one could break in.

After many years, the woman had grown older. Each day she looked into the Mirror and although she saw the signs of aging, she still rejoiced in her Father’s love for her. The golden circlet sat beautifully on her graying hair. Her eyes still sparkled and a smile was on her lips. Each day as she opened the box she thanked her Father for the gift inside.

One day the woman opened the box and there alone on the sand lay the golden circlet. Surprised, the woman quickly ran her fingers through the sand. There, just under the top lay a gold ring. A simple gold ring with no intricate design. The woman shook the sand off and quickly placed the ring on her finger. “Oh, Father! Thank you! I was so afraid!” She stood and looked in the Mirror.

Looking at herself, for the first time she saw a shadow of doubt in her eyes. “Why?” she asked herself. “Why was the ring not ON the sand, but buried within it?” She shook her head in impatience, smiled at herself and adjusted the circlet more firmly on her forehead.

Several mornings later, she opened the box and again, there lay the golden circlet alone. She ran her fingers through the sand, deeper this time, until they suddenly touched a piece of gold.

Shaken inside, the woman pulled the bracelet from the sand and looked at it. A simple gold circle. Quickly she put her hand through and pushed it up high on her arm. Standing in front of the Mirror, she saw frightened eyes looking at her beneath the golden circlet.

The next morning no matter how hard she dug through the sand in the box, she could find no golden jewelry. With shaking hands she placed the circlet on her head and went to see her Father, the King.

“Father!” she cried. “My box is empty!”

“Empty?” her Father asked. “What is that on your head?”

“The golden circlet you placed there yourself so many years ago. But Father, the golden jewelry – it has been harder and harder to find each morning. And Father!” she began to cry, “there was nothing there at all today! Father,” she whispered, “Father, do you still love me?” The old woman hung her head and wept.

“Oh my daughter! My precious daughter! Of course I still love you. I have always loved you and I will love you forever. You are my daughter, the apple of my eye.” The King smiled gently at his daughter, reached out, put his finger beneath her chin and lift her head. “Daughter, what is in the box each morning?”

“The golden circlet, a piece of beautiful gold jewelry and sand,” the old woman replied.

“Look deeper, Daughter. Tomorrow and the day after and the day after that – look deeper.” The King smiled. The old woman smiled back through her tears, a shaky smile.

She returned to her room and looked once again into the Mirror. The gold circlet on her gray hair shone in the morning sun. But the old woman’s eyes were looking elsewhere. Yes, the circlet was there – but her neck was bare! Her arms were bare! Her ears and ankles were bare. Everywhere she looked she saw nothing but emptiness. She looked at her eyes and realized they were filled with deep pain.

The following morning, the old woman approached the box hesitantly. With shaking hands she lifted the lid and looked at the golden circlet lying on the sand. Shaking with fear she placed it on her head. A few grains of sand dropped into her hair. She pushed her fingers through the sand, swirling them forward and backward. Nothing. She dug down to the bottom of the box and searched each corner. Nothing.

The old woman placed her hands in her lap and cried. After some time, she stood and looked at herself in the Mirror but all she could see was gray hair and wrinkles and eyes shadowed in sorrow. She returned to her Father.

“My Father, I do not understand. I looked deeper. I searched all through the box this morning, but there was nothing!” she out cried in pain and sorrow.

“Nothing, my Daughter? Nothing at all?”

“Oh Father, you know the circlet was there because you can see it here on my head right now,” she responded in anger. “Father, are you playing games with me? Are you testing me? Have I not said over and over to you how thankful I am for the jewelry you gave me each morning? Why? Why is there nothing there now?” The old woman stamped her foot. “I can barely stand to look at myself in the Mirror now! All I can see is my gray hair, my wrinkles, how stooped and old I am becoming! The gold is gone!”

“Daughter, my Daughter.” The King sat back on his throne and looked at her, eyes filled with compassion. “Look deeper.”

The old woman wept. “I looked, Father. I searched and searched. I do not understand what you are asking of me!” She turned and left. That night, before she laid her circlet back into the box, she stared at the sand. Slowly she reached inside and began to run her fingers through the sand. Back and forth, sand swirled between her fingers, slowly relaxing her, her eyes closed. After some time, she roused herself, placed the circlet on the sand and softly shut the lid.

The next morning dawned bright and clear. The old woman opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling of her room. Slowly she turned her head and looked at the box, sitting there beside her Mirror. Dread filled her heart. She pushed herself up and swung her feet to the floor. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she leaned an elbow on her leg and rested her hand on her chin. She stared at the box sitting beside the mirror for several minutes.

Rising from the bed, she slowly walked to the box. Each step was an effort to complete. Her muscles had never felt so tired. She unlatched the lid and slowly opened the box. There on the sand sat the golden circlet alone. With unsteady hands she lifted it to her head, grains of sand falling off onto her gown and into her hair. With eyes closed she reached into the sand and slowly began to sift through it. The sand was warm and soothing. She rubbed several grains between her fingers. Suddenly she felt something hard deep beneath the surface. Her eyes opened in surprise and quickly she began to dig.

In shock she looked at what she held. A rock. A polished piece of turquoise, streaked with veins of gold. The rock dropped from her hand and disappeared back into the sand. The old woman laughed in anger. Without bothering to shut the lid or look at herself in the Mirror she ran to her Father’s room and burst through the door.

“Father, is this some kind of joke? A rock! A ROCK. You replaced my golden jewelry with a ROCK?” She glared at him.

“Daughter, did you look? Did you really look in the box? What did you see there?”

“I saw my golden circlet, that rock and sand, Father! That is all. Nothing else. Nothing! This is all your fault, Father!”

Suddenly the anger left her. “Father,” she sighed, “When I look into the Mirror I don’t see myself any more. I see an old woman. Everything was good and I was beautiful when I wore the golden jewelry. Now all I see is what I am lacking. Youth. Beauty. Joy. These things were precious to me, Father, and they came from the golden jewelry. I want my golden jewelry back. Please! I beg of you, please give me back my golden jewelry!”

“YOUR golden jewelry, Daughter?”

“Yes, MY golden jewelry!”

“But Daughter, I gave to you a gift, a simple gift, a box. The box is the gift I gave to you. Think carefully, my beloved Daughter. The box is yours, but the jewelry inside has always been mine. I have loaned it to you every day, and each night I take it back so that in the morning I can give you another gift. No, my dear, the jewelry is not yours.”

The old woman looked at her Father in shock. “Not mine! I don’t understand, Father. Every morning for many years I have looked in the Mirror and have seen myself clothed in that beautiful jewelry. MY beautiful jewelry! Father, I don’t know who I am without it. I do not recognize that person in the Mirror now. That cannot be me, because I am not me without the golden jewelry! I don’t know who I am! I am lost without it.”

“Who am I?”

“You are my Father.”

“Then – you are my daughter! You are the daughter of the King! You cannot define yourself by the gifts I give you, but instead you must define yourself by who your Father is. Now, tomorrow morning – look deeper into the box. Look beyond yourself in the Mirror. Open your eyes and see clearly.”

The old woman wept. “It is impossible. I cannot see myself clearly. I only see the lack, I only see what is not there, not what is there in the Mirror. I don’t like what I see in the Mirror!” She turned and stumbled back to her room.

The following morning it took a long time for the woman to gather enough strength and desire to arise. Wearily she walked over to the box. She ignored the Mirror, not wanting to see what it would reflect. She opened the box and there, lying on the sand was the golden circlet. Sighing, she picked it up and placed it on her head. Sadness filled her mind and heart. Without thinking she ran her fingers through the sand while she sat staring at nothing. Back and forth her fingers swirled through the sand, deeper and then shallower, around and around. Tears of despair trickled down her cheeks.

Across the room a breeze blew through the open window and pushed the curtain aside for just a moment in time. A sunbeam streaked across the room and splashed into the box. From deep within the box a burst of brilliance sparked up into the room and in the next instant, disappeared. The old woman sat stunned, fingers suddenly still within the sand. Slowly she gathered a few grains of sand in her palm, stood and walked to the window. Pushing back the curtain, she held her hand open in the sun. Once more the room was filled with brilliance.

As she turned her palm this way and that, the sun reflected off each grain in her hand. For the first time she saw the sand for what it truly was. There in the crease near her thumb was a brilliant sapphire and there near her ring finger lay a ruby. In the very center of her palm lay a diamond, refracting colored beams of light throughout the room.

She looked up, across the room at the Mirror. In silence the old woman gazed at herself. There on her head was a circlet of brilliant gold. In her gray hair and from her skin a million tiny rays of colored light flashed throughout the room. The old woman stood in shock, slowly closing her hand around the sand.

In a daze she turned and walked out the door to her Father’s room.

“Father?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yes, my Daughter?”

“What do you see when you look at me?” she asked him quietly.

“Oh my Daughter! What do I see!? I see my perfect Daughter, my perfect creation.”

“Father, the box…the box alone truly was the gift you gave me all those years ago, isn’t it?”

“Yes, the box. Simple wood, carved by my hand just for you. In that box I created just for you, my Daughter, I placed the greatest gift I could give you.”

“The gift, the greatest gift was not the golden jewelry the box gave me every morning, was it?”

“No.”

“The greatest gift was the box itself and what it continued to contain every day after it had given the beautiful jewelry to me?”

“Yes.”

“Father, what do you see when you look at me? What do you really see?”

“I see you, my Daughter. I see the real you. You with a golden circlet gleaming in your hair, a circlet which tells the world that you are my daughter. I see you shining and sparkling, reflecting the Light in beautiful colors. Yes, the box and what is contained in the box was, and still remains, my gift to you. I assure you that you will still find golden jewelry every now and again, but the most precious gift, my Dearest, is the sand. One day the box may disappear, but since the first time you took a piece of gold jewelry in your hand, the sand became a part of you and will always continue to be a part of you. I love you, Daughter, and I have given you the best of the very best gift I could give.”