The Hallway of Bookcases---an allegory

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.