It's a long hallway.
When you stand at the head of it, it stretches back as far as you can see.
There are windows lining the top of the hallway; sometimes it's bright in here,
and sometimes it's dark. But, light or dark, it's still my hallway.
Lining
the inside of the hallway are bookcases. Massive bookcases that touch the
ceiling. Within each of these bookcases are shelves- so many shelves that you
couldn't even begin to count them all. And each one is different. The make,
style, type of wood...and the things that I have placed on them. Each one
differs from the next.
If you
were to go to the very back of the hall, and look at the bookcases there, most
of the shelves you will see are dusty, and full of old, dusty things. I seldom
go back there. But, every once in awhile, there are shelves that I go back to
look at. Shelves that contain some very precious books and things- things that
I, out of habit, go back to lovingly review. But the majority of those shelves
are never touched anymore.
As you
get closer to the head of the hall, the bookcases get less dusty and more used.
Or so it seems. A good many of the shelves are empty.
The
shelves that are empty are empty simply because they never caught my attention
as shelves worthy of being used as safe places for my precious things. And so
they remain empty.
There
are quite a few shelves that have a few things on them; insignificant and
seemingly unimportant things. A small trinket here, a little piece of paper
there...some are even apparently full. The vast portion of those shelves
though, are filled with cotton and dandelion fluff; things that are fun to play
with and bring temporary joy, but have no solidness to them. Such is the nature
of the better percentage of my shelves.
There is
a bookcase that I move along the hall each year that passes, It has many, many
shelves and each one is special. Each one has a good number of things on it,
and I see most of them daily. All except those that are too high for me to
reach.
I would
like to tell you the history of three of the shelves in my hall. Each one is
located at a different place in the hall, and each one in a different bookcase;
and yet I see or think of each one every day. Thus, I begin my narrative.
The
first shelf I will tell you of is on the right hand side of the hall, the third
bookcase down and about two-thirds of the way up on the case. The first time I
saw this particular shelf, I chafed. The very sight of it made me sick. It was
a light-colored wood-honey colored- and the protruding edge of the shelf was
scalloped and daintily cut to make it look pretty. The shelf itself was thin
and from where I stood I couldn't see that it would hold anything substantial.
So I walked on past it, and promptly forgot about it's existence.
Some
time later, I walked past the shelf again, and again, I noticed the scalloped
edge. Like before, I turned my nose up and walked away.
Then
came the fateful day that I was forced to walk to the shelf that I despised so
much and stare straight at it. I had no choice; it simply had to be done. As I
stood there, my eyes boring holes into the wood, I suddenly realized that maybe
that scalloped edge wasn't so bad after all. In fact, it was kind of cute on
that particular shelf. Perhaps it wouldn't be quite so terrible to use it for some
things. And so I set my first object, a bead in the shape of two hands, on the
scalloped shelf. No sooner had I done that then the shelf that I had so
despised transformed the bead. The wood underneath the crystal clear of the
bead made it shine and sparkle and glow like I had never before seen. I smiled
at the shelf for the first time.
As the
months passed, I found that the shelf was capable of holding more than it
appeared it could've. I was pleasantly surprised, and soon the shelf was loaded
with many precious and sacred objects. It never seemed to fill up; there was
always room for more, and I was so thankful that I had decided to use that
shelf.
The
second shelf I would like to tell you about is also on the right side of the
hall, the fourth bookcase down, and about halfway up on the case. The first
time I saw this shelf, it caught my eye. It was a thick, strong shelf, made of
dark, mahogany colored wood that glowed in the light from the window opposite
the hall from it. It was beautiful, and I at once wished to place things on it.
However, this particular shelf was so low to the ground, and I was so tall,
that I surely would've had to bend over to reach it, and bending over hurts my
back. So I turned away, however sadly, from this shelf.
Not long
after I found myself near the shelf again. This time it glowed so fiercely that
I simply was compelled; I had to try and place things on it regardless of if it
hurt my back or no. Then a thought occurred to me; suppose I knelt down in
front of the shelf. I would be able to reach the shelf so much easier, and
perhaps that wouldn't hurt as badly. So I knelt, and to my joy found no pain
whatever in kneeling. So I began placing things on the shelf, and soon, it too
looked like the first: full, and yet never full.
The
third shelf I would like to tell you about is on the left side of the hall, the
third bookcase down, about three-fourths of the way up on the case. The first
time I noticed this shelf, all I could see was the very edge of it. It appeared
to be a very dark wood, and rock hard at that. But, the only piece of it that I
could see was the very edge of the shelf, mind you...that and the dark, black space
above it. I decided that first off, that shelf was far too dark and frightening
a place for me to ever put anything, and secondly, that it was too high for me
to reach anyways. I left the shelf alone.
Yet why
was it that that shelf came to mind so often? So often it crept into my
thoughts; the rock hardness of it, and the blackness above it. It seemed a
mystery to me, and one day I found myself back in front of that shelf, looking
up at it. Strange, how it seemed closer than it had before. Almost as though it
were within reach. On an impulse, I decided to try and put something on the
shelf. I had with me a glass bottle, and taking it in hand, I stretched as far
as I could to place it on the shelf. I had just got it resting on the lip of
the shelf when it fell to the floor and shattered into hundreds of shimmering
pieces. I looked at the bottle in disappointment. I had rather liked the
bottle, but it was too late now to do anything about it. I picked up the
pieces, and, having nowhere else to put them, tossed them up onto that black
shelf, where they stayed.
Still,
the shelf returned to my mind. Again and again. I simply couldn't forget it.
Days would come, and I would try to place other things on the shelf. But each
one, like the first would fall and crash on the floor, and shatter at my feet.
And each time, I would pick up the pieces and toss them up onto the shelf where
they couldn't be seen.
After so
many times of doing this, I began to realize that there were scratches on my
hands. From whence they had come, I had no idea, but they puzzled me greatly.
They didn't appear to be causing much problem or pain, and so I ignored them.
Then
came the day that I walked past the shelf, and happened to look at it. I looked
in amazement. It wasn't near as dark as it had been before, and I was surprised
at how much of the shelf I could see. But, along with the space of shelf that I
could see, I could also see a pile of glittering glass. And I knew, at that
moment, that I had to clean that glass off that shelf.
As I
stood there looking at this shelf in wonder, my Father happened by. “My child,”
He said, “what are you staring at in such wonder?” I told Him how I had found
the shelf, and all the things that had preceded this happening. He seemed to
already know about it, but He nodded and replied, “And now you want to clean it
off.”
“I do, I
do,” I answered, with tears in my eyes. “But Father, I don't think I could
clean it off without hurting myself.” He looked down at me and smiled tenderly.
“I'll
stand here with you and make sure you don't hurt yourself,” He said. “And I'll
help you when you need Me.”
So He
did. I began picking pieces of glass off the shelf and throwing them in the
trash. The first ones were easy, and I began to think that they would all be like
this. But no sooner did I think that then I picked up a larger piece of glass,
this one stained with blood. I suddenly very vividly recalled cutting myself on
this piece of glass. I deliberated for a fatal moment, looking at the glass and
remembering the pain it caused. Just then, my Father spoke.
“My
child, let it go.” I looked down into His compassionate eyes, and slowly
released the glass to fall into the trash.
Each one
after that was a struggle. When I finally got to the last piece of glass, I was
in tears. As I picked up the last, and largest piece of glass that was covered
completely in blood, I looked down through pain-filled eyes at my Father.
“I can't
do it,” I whispered in agony. “Father, help me.” He stood, and reached up and
put His hands around mine. Then, taking my hands, He moved them over the trash
and said, “Now you must open your hands.” Tears of bitter anguish rolled down
my face, and I finally, slowly opened my fingers and let the glass drop to rest
in the pile of glass at the bottom of the trash can. Relief such as I had never
before felt swept over my soul and I fell into my Father's arms, thanking Him
profusely. He kissed the top of my head and said, “Now, my child, now we must
dust the shelf off and clean it up so that you can use it.” I nodded into His
shoulder.
“Look,”
He whispered. I lifted my tear-stained face and my gaze was directed to the
shelf. I now could see farther into the shelf than I had ever before been able
to, and it didn't seem half so dark. In fact, the wood was a lovely color;
nothing like what I had originally thought it to be. I smiled at the shelf for
the first time.
In no
time at all, my Father and I had cleaned off the shelf: dusted and cleaned and
wiped and polished it. It was simply beautiful. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank
you!” My Father smiled.
Soon, I
had tested the strength of the shelf to the utmost, and found that it was one
of the most capable and wonderful shelves on the left side of the hall that I
had ever found. And so life continued on.
Not a
long while later, I decided to place another article on the second shelf; the
small, dark colored one I told you about. So I took my object, and went to the
shelf and knelt down in front of it. I placed my object on the shelf, and no
sooner had I done so than a miscellaneous object came hurtling off the shelf
and struck me in the face. I sat there, stunned. My cheek grew red and hurt
badly. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I just knelt there before the shelf,
weeping. Soon, though, I heard a soft footfall in the hall and looked up. There
was my Father. He always seemed to know when something went wrong. He came over
to me, knelt down beside me, put His strong arm around me and asked, “My child,
what happened?” I told Him all of what happened, and as I did, I saw a tear
glisten in His eye and fall to stain his shirt with a little wet spot. He said
nothing until I had finished talking.
“My
child,” He finally said, “pick it up, and place it back on the shelf. It was an
accident. Forget and forgive. “ I sniffed.
“I want
to,” I said. “But I don't want to be hurt again.” My Father laid His cheek on
my hair.
“Yes, my
child, I know. But pain is a part of life. I know that kind of pain, too, you
see. This kind of pain burns like fire for a small amount of time, and soon
dissipates. But here”-and He lifted the object off the floor-”place it back on
the shelf. Your shelf is still your shelf, and it still has many years of good
service in it.” I nodded, and though my cheek still burned, I placed the object
back on the shelf. As soon as I had done so, the pain in my cheek went away,
and I smiled up at my Father. And He smiled back at me.
Not such
a long time after this, I was thinking about my other shelf; the scalloped one.
And I decided that I was going to go and reminisce over the things I had placed
on it. I set off down the hall towards my shelf. No sooner had I got there,
however, than I saw in horror that everything I had so carefully placed and
arranged on that shelf had been thrown out and into the hall. Nothing was left
on the shelf; not even a piece of string. None of the things were broken, but
some were dented and I found myself growing angry. Anger built in me 'til I
turned on my heel and left the shelf and the mess in the hall.
Soon,
though I had returned, but this time I was carrying an axe with me. I was going
to destroy the shelf and never think of it again. As I stood before the shelf
and looked down on it in fury, I raised the axe high above my head. Just as I
was about to bring it down and forever terminate the shelf, I noticed
something. At the back of the shelf, in a corner that people seldom saw, the
shelf was broken. Simply broken. Then I realized that I had neglected to keep
this shelf in repair. The reason it had fallen had been partially my fault. I
dropped the axe; it clattered to the floor. I hung my head, buried it in my
hands, and began to weep. Remorse now took the place of anger in my heart, and
I stood there feeling ashamed of my hasty actions.
As I
stood thus, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Without looking, I knew Who it was.
And yet I felt ashamed of myself, so I didn't look up. We stood there thus for
a short time, and then...
“My
child.” That was all He said. I instantly felt a wave of sorrow and bitter
remorse sweep over me.
“Why are
you standing here?” He asked. I lifted my head and in broken-hearted whispers
told Him the entire story. He nodded sympathetically.
“Why
exactly do you stand here and weep so, though, my child?” He further pressed.
“It seems to me that you did the right thing in not striking the shelf and
destroying it.”
“Oh, but
Father,” I whispered tremblingly, “I am weeping because I nearly destroyed
something You made for me; and when I was partly to blame at that!” He smiled
now, though it was through tears.
“You are
truly sorry. My child, there is no shortage of forgiveness with Me. True, you
did think to demolish the shelf, but you see the wrong in it and now you are
forgiven. If you will ask Me, I can help you rebuild that broken corner, and
ensure that it will never give way again.” I nodded, and said, “Please, Father,
help me fix it.”
He took
me out to His workshop, where He had lovingly handcrafted each shelf and
bookcase. He went about the room, picking up tools and materials until He had
all that we would need. Taking my hand in His, we returned to the shelf and
reinforced it. And true to His word, the shelf was stronger than it had ever
been. I placed all my things back on it, smiling the entire time. When I turned
to look up at my Father, He had gone. But I whispered in my heart, “Thank you
Father. Thank you....”
It's a
long hallway. It stretches back as far as you can see. There are shelves in it
that I see each day, and some I never notice. But each one was put there for a
purpose; and I know that my Father placed each shelf within each case, and each
case within my hallway that I might have life, and have it more abundantly.
Take a
look at your hallway. How far back does it go? How many bookcases are in it?
How many shelves? What is on each shelf?
And,
more importantly, Who is your Father?
Epilogue:
The shadows steal up
the long hallway, and cast darkness round about the bookcases lining the walls.
I’m standing at the head of my long hall, looking down at the shelves I’d loved
so well: each one, having endured so much, and borne so much for me. I’d come
to a door; I’d moved my fixed bookcase behind it and was ready to close the
door forever on that end of the hallway. As my hand tightened on the door
handle, the key clasped in my other hand, tears flowed down my face and I
couldn’t move; couldn’t bear to close the door on those shelves and all that
was on them. I couldn’t do it…
And then I felt a hand
on my shoulder. Looking up through tear blinded eyes, I see the sympathetic
smile of my Father once again.
“Why do you cry, my
Child?” He asks, gently placing a hand on my head. I swallow a sob and whisper
brokenly, “Father, I can’t close this door; I just can’t.”
“But you need to,”
He reminds me. “Remember all that awaits you on the other side of the door, and
close this chapter of your life.” More tears spring to my eyes and course down
my cheeks.
“But I can’t…” I
falter. The look in my Father’s eyes, however, tells me I must. “Help me…” I
whisper.
My Father comes to
stand beside me and puts His scarred hand over mine on the doorknob, and His
other hand over the one clasping the key.
“I will be the force
that guides you, but you must put forth the effort,” He says softly. Sobbing as
though my heart would break, I close the door and lock it, my Father’s hands
guiding my every move. Once I finish, I collapse in His arms, weeping. He holds
me tenderly against His heart and when I’ve cried away all the tears I have
inside me, He lifts my face up to His and says softly, “Now, on to the next
hallway. It may be frightening, and it may be new… And yes, you have closed
that hallway forever. But I have more shelves for you to discover—more lessons
for you to learn. Be strong my Child.” I nod, and my Father disappears from
sight.
I turn, the key to
the door tightly clenched in my hand, and look at the door behind which now
lies locked forever the precious memories I’d treasured. Swallowing
determinedly, I step forward and hang the key around the door knob, and then my
steps fade into the distance. The key hangs on the door, waiting to be
unlocked, but none will ever return there. It is forever lost.
The shadows lengthen
in the long hall, and the darkness swallows the visible shelves, the last ones
to disappear from sight being three special shelves, still loaded with precious
memories and trusts. And night falls.
