The Mark of the Master, part 2
Thanks for stopping back today to enjoy the end of the parable God long ago prompted me to write for parents. If you missed yesterday’s post, please take a moment to read part 1 of this little story. I ‘m praying that God will speak tenderly to your mommy-heart through this simple story just as He has spoken to me through its truth over the years. May we celebrate the Master’s mark upon our children as we continue to love and care for them!
The Mark of the Master
A Parable for Parents
(part 2)
Gradually, the doll maker’s daughter began to wonder if her Father had really given her the right doll after all….
Gradually, the doll maker’s daughter began to wonder if her Father had really given her the right doll after all….
Yes, he had said that he’d designed it just for her, but maybe her Father didn’t really know her heart. Maybe her doll would have been better suited for someone else. With such thoughts taking root in her heart, the craftsman’s daughter approached her Father one evening as he sat reading by the fire.
“Daddy,” she said, “I’d like to trade in my doll for another. Do you think you could make one with walking legs and jet black hair?”
The wise maker set down his book and gazed deep into his daughter’s eyes. “Dear daughter, the doll I have given you is exactly what you need. I would not have given it to you if it were not so.” And with that, the artisan planted a tender kiss on his daughter’s head and encouraged her to enjoy the doll with which she had been entrusted.
Frustrated and discouraged, the young girl began to doubt her father’s wisdom. “If my father won’t give me a new doll, I’ll just have to alter the one I have,” she decided. That night, when the craftsman had settled into bed, the young girl took her beautiful doll and cut off of its golden hair. Then, with needle in hand, the determined child sewed choppy strands of silky black string all over the doll’s delicate head.
The next day, the young girl complained as she scrubbed scuff marks off of her doll’s creamy white skin. “If Daddy had given my doll brown skin, then the dirt would be disguised. I shouldn’t have to work so hard to keep my dolly clean.” And so, without another thought, the young girl began to cover the doll’s fair skin with a thick layer of chocolate brown paint.
Soon after, the doll maker’s daughter grew irritated with the joyous coos that bubbled from the depths of her priceless doll. “I am so tired of those perky sounds,” the young girl grumbled. “I want my doll to talk. Then she would be good company for a girl like me.” And so, in the dark of the night, the master’s daughter slipped out of bed and followed the winding road out of town. There, on the village edge, lived another craftsman. He was no master like her father, but, a hobbyist known for gadgetry and inventions. Much to the girl’s delight, the second-rate doll maker agreed to cut open her Father’s masterpiece and reprogram it for the young girl. Days later, the master’s daughter toted her new-and-improved-black-haired-brown-skinned,-sentence-spewing doll back home.
The young girl was pleased when her friends complimented her tenacious determination to turn the doll into the toy she had really wanted. But strangely, the more the girl modified her Father’s creation, the less time she spent with the one who had made it. By and by, she stopped greeting her Father at the door and ceased sitting at his feet to enjoy late night chats by the fire. She couldn’t explain it, but deep inside, she felt ill at ease with the Master Craftsman. To plug the void that her father’s company had once filled, the girl kept busy planning more and more ways to make her doll everything her heart desired. She popped out the blue eyes and replaced them with mysterious black ones and even began to investigate the possibility of amputating her doll’s intricately stitched legs and replacing them with a mechanical variety that would enable the Master’s creation to walk.
Then one day, there was a knock on the girl’s bedroom door. And there, beyond the entry, stood her father, his eyes of love drinking up the image of his youngest daughter.
“What are you doing here?” the young girl asked warily.
“I’m looking for you,” the craftsman tenderly replied. “I’ve missed you, dear one. And I’ve missed seeing the sparkle in your eyes as you dance with your darling doll.” Then, with a curious glance about the room, the doll maker asked, “Where is your special doll? I do not see it.”
“Father,” the young girl drawled, “Are your eyes going bad in your old age? My doll is there on the bed.”
Confused, the doll’s creator moved towards the strange looking creature. Atop the frilly pillows and fluffy pink blankets sat a toy he did not recognize. Stringy strands of cheap black hair hung from its head while its body was covered with brittle layers of brown paint. Strange words came from the toys’ mouth, and empty black eyes stared back at the Master. “Who crafted such a sad sight?” the old doll maker wondered as he lifted up the motley mess. Turning to his daughter, the craftsman asked, “Whose toy is this, my child?”
“Don’t you recognize it?” the girl replied with exasperation. “That is the doll you made me! Can’t you identify your own creation when you see it?” The Doll Maker stared at the motley plaything for a long quiet moment.
“Surely this is not the work of my hands,” he cried in disbelief. Gently, the craftsman lifted the discolored layers of silk that adorned the doll. And with worn fingers, the master began to scratch away the crusty paint as if he were digging for hidden treasure.
The daughter held her breath. What was her father doing? She was going to have to repaint the whole doll if he didn’t stop! Then she saw it. As her Father moved his large wrinkled hands off of the doll to wipe the tears from his eyes, the young girl caught a glimpse of something she had forgotten was there: tucked discreetly below thigh on the leg the girl had planned to replace, sat a small brown cross, the mark of the Master.
Realizing that the atrocity he held in his hands was indeed a remnant of his craftsmanship, the doll maker wept. “What have you done?” he cried as he gazed into his daughter’s eyes. “This is not the doll I designed for you. If not for my mark, I would have never recognized it as a work of my hands.”
“But Father,” the girl argued. “I told you I wanted a different doll. You just wouldn’t listen.”
The words were more than the great craftsman could bear. Cupping his daughter’s head in his hands, he let his tears fall like a spring rain. “My child,” he whispered sadly, “The doll I gave you was exactly what you needed to grow into the woman you were created to be. All you had to do was to trust my heart and accept my gift.”
