The Mark of the Master: A Parable for Parents
As promised, over the next few days, I’ll be sharing a parable for parents that I wrote many years ago. At the time, I was a new mommy struggling with the “make” of the child God had entrusted to me. I’m ashamed to admit it, but many times over the course of those first few years of parenthood, I begged the Lord to change my “gift.” Instead, He began to change me. That change started when He placed this story on my heart one night and called me out of bed to write it down. I’ve shared it countless times since and still feel convicted by its message. I’d love to hear your thoughts when you’ve finished reading it. Enjoy!
The Mark of the Master
A Parable for Parents
Once upon a time there lived a maker of dolls. Day in and day out, the doll maker’s gentle hands crafted masterpieces that danced in little girls’ dreams. Dolls with silken hair and dolls with soft bald heads; dolls with ruddy cheeks and dolls with pale porcelain skin; dolls with eyes of brown, eyes of blue, eyes as dark as a moonless night. Dolls that talked and dolls that cooed. Some that walked and some that crawled. Dressed in gowns of velvet or swaddled in sleepers of silk, each doll was as unique as the blessed child for whom it had been made. Upon the craftsman’s insistence, no doll was like another. From all corners of the globe, people traveled to request a doll shaped by the master’s hands. And in all corners of the globe, little girls giggled with glee as they beheld the masterpiece that had been entrusted into their care.
It just so happened that the craftsman had a young daughter of his own. For years, the little girl had dreamed of having a doll to call hers. Not just any doll, but one crafted by the hands of her own father. When the doll maker would return home at the end of a long day, the little girl would greet her Daddy at the door and ask, “What did you make today, Father?”
And with a sparkle in his eyes, the doll maker would tell his youngest daughter of the silken hair he had sewn onto a sleepy doll’s head, or the rosy lips he had painted with care. The artisan’s little girl would listen with eyes aglow and then, cupping the hands of her Father’s face and looking directly into his loving eyes, she would whisper, “And did you make one for me today?”
With no touch of reproach, the jovial doll maker would sweep his youngest into his arms, hold her close, and whisper, “Not today. But when the time is right, I will entrust you with a masterpiece.”
And so the years passed and the little girl clung to her Father’s promise until one blustery starless night when her father walked through the door with a package tucked tenderly under his arm. As always, his daughter greeted him with a kiss and asked the question, “What did you make today, Father?”
And as always, the maker crouched on one knee, but instead of his usual stories, he pulled the brightly colored package from beneath his arm and offered it to his child. “Why don’t you see for yourself what I’ve been busy with, my dove?”
The little girl could scarcely believe her eyes. Her delicate hands trembled as she tugged at the silky ribbons and bows that bound the box. With squeals of anticipation, she stripped away the paper beneath, and then turned to her Father for help. With strong hands, he opened the wooden crate and lifted out the most beautiful doll the little girl had ever seen.
Tenderly, with tears in his eyes, the doll maker laid his masterpiece into his daughter’s outstretched arms. “Oh, Daddy!” the young girl cried, “I thought you had forgotten my wish.”
“Darling daughter,” the great maker responded, “I know your soul’s desires. I would never forget.” And then, taking his youngest into his arms, the craftsman whispered, “Since the day I first held you in my arms, I have been designing your doll in my heart.” He paused and gazed deep into his child’s earnest eyes, “And now I am entrusting my masterpiece to you. Take good care of it, my child. There is none like it in the entire world.”
Then lifting the miniature gown of silk to reveal the body he had so tenderly shaped, the craftsman pointed to a mark that his daughter knew well. Branded discreetly on the lovely doll’s thigh was a small brown cross. It was her father’s insignia, the mark that identified the maker. Without it, the doll was still beautiful; but with it, the doll was priceless. And so the daughter’s wish was granted and she promised her father that she would love and cherish his gift forever.
The days passed quickly and the daughter delighted in her new doll. She marveled at its silky locks of gold and gazed deep into its sky blue eyes. Her heart waltzed in response to her precious one’s gentle smile and her lips bubbled with laughter as she listened to the joyous coos that came from somewhere inside of the perfectly crafted doll. At first, the doll maker’s daughter cradled the precious gift in her arms for hours and dreamed of what they would do together in the years to come.
But by and by, the young girl began to study other dolls. When her friends came to play with dolls in hand, the master’s daughter took note of her playmates’ toys. She noticed dolls with shiny black hair and tan skin. She discovered dolls that talked, rather than merely cooing in soft tones. One day she even met a girl whose doll walked across the room. It was hard and stiff with metallic arms and legs, but it walked; nonetheless, and the high-tech doll struck spectators with awe. Suddenly, the masterpiece that the doll maker had entrusted to his daughter seemed a bit dull and old- fashioned. Gradually, the doll maker’s daughter began to wonder if her Father had really given her the right doll after all….
(Please join me tomorrow for the rest of the story)
