The Skateboard (Parables)

Recently, God's been giving me extremely applicable word pictures to describe concepts, events, or feelings. Given that I am not at all a picture-thinker, this has been extremely odd to me, but an interesting new way I've found to communicate. Anyway, I plan to start blogging some of these "word pictures" as parable-type stories. This one is much shorter than the one I hope is to come. I've been planning to post the next one (titled, "The Coach") for a while, but I'm not at all enjoying the process of fleshing out the actual story, so I've been procrastinating it quite thoroughly. Anyway, here is the first:

The Skateboard

Joey was just looking for his dad's baseball cap in his parents' closet, but he caught sight of the shelf his mom kept the presents on. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the skateboard. His birthday was in a month and he'd been begging his parents for that exact board. He knew his mom didn't like it when her surprises were ruined, so he waited as long as he could, but, finally, he couldn't stand it anymore.

"Mom," he asked excitedly one day, "when can I have the skateboard that's up in the closet?"

"That's a gift, my son," his mom answered.

"Yeah . . . I know . . ." he stated, annoyed that she was telling him something he already knew. "But when can I have it?"

"When the time is right, Son. I promise it'll be perfect."

He went away barely satisfied with the answer and remained marginally content for about a week before he approached his mom again.

"Mom," he asked again, this time a bit of an anxious whine in his tone, "can I have my skateboard, please?"

A bit put off by the entitled whine in his voice, his mother responded, "You know it's a gift I'm keeping to give you at the perfect time."

He didn't respond, but walked away with a frown, saying to himself, "But it's mine and you promised to give it to me."

Joey resigned himself to the fact that he couldn't convince his mother to give him the coveted skateboard early. He'd simply have to wait until his birthday. As the three weeks drug on, he kept a mental countdown of the days until he could finally have what had been promised to him.

Finally, the day had come. He had lain awake most of the night imagining what he would do with his skateboard the next day. The second he knew he could get out of bed without risking angering his parents, he did. He ran straight into their room and began proclaiming that his day had finally arrived.

He eagerly unwrapped his gifts, graciously glancing over each one before tossing it aside in hopes of finding the one he particularly wanted. When the final gift had been unwrapped, he looked bewilderedly at his parents.

"Where's my skateboard?"

"These are your gifts, Joey," his mother stated almost sternly. "These are the things your father and I have to give you today."

"But I want my skateboard!"

"Joseph," his father interjected, "you're being disrespectful and ungrateful."

He pouted, but turned to the gifts he'd received obediently. "These are ok, I guess." He placated himself with the thought that surely his parents would give him his skateboard at his birthday dinner with his grandparents the following evening.

Yes, he received more gifts at the birthday dinner, but with each unwrapped package, his hopes fell a bit and his bitterness took their place. The skateboard was not among them.

Joey slammed his fists down on the table, startling not only his own family, but the patrons at tables around them as well. "You promised me my skateboard. I already have the elbow and knee pads and the helmet. I've been watching videos and practicing on friends' boards. I'm all ready and you won't give me what you promised."

He was sent directly to his room to cool off once the family returned home from dinner, having left shortly after his outburst. He sat on his bed, feeling sorry for himself and stewing about his parents' broken promise for almost an hour before his mom entered the room.

"Are you ready to talk, Joey?" she questioned kindly.

"I guess."

"You think I broke my promise to give you your skateboard."

"It sure seems that way."

"My son, I did make that promise, yes. But the promise I made was to give it to you when the time was right: at the perfect time."

"But what time could be better than now? It's my birthday," the little boy mumbled.

His mom put her hand on his knee affectionately. "Joey, you don't know everything. You can't see everything the way I see it. I could've given you your skateboard today and it would have been good--great even. But when I do give you your skateboard, it's going to be perfect--better than today. Trust me, my son."

Joey shrugged. "What else can I do?"

"Well, you could be unhappy all the time."

He shook his head and smiled at his mom. "That's not the boy I want to be, Mom."

What Joey didn't see was the circumstances that surrounded him. Joey's family lived in a small, second-storey apartment. They had no yard, obviously, and only a very small driveway that was almost always packed with cars. There was a very, very small sidewalk that Joey could have ridden on, but little else, save the street where it wasn't safe. Joey also didn't know something his parents did--a skateboard park was opening just two blocks away two weeks after their son's birthday.

On this day, his mother, driving him home from school, passed the grand opening of the skate park.

"What's that?" she asked slyly.

"I don't know," he answered, straining to see across the street.

"Let's get out and look."

She parked the car and they walked over. His eyes grew wide when he saw the grandeur of all that was before him. As he watched some of his neighborhood friends riding, he felt a bit of sadness creep into his heart. He tried to push down the longing for the board he didn't have and remind himself of his parents' wisdom and his desire to be content.

"Can I watch for a while?" he asked.

"Of course."

He sat down on a bleacher seat and found himself actually enjoying what he saw. He knew he couldn't participate, but it was fun to watch just the same. He was startled out of his reverie by someone sitting next to him.

"Dad!" he exclaimed.

"Would you like to ride too, Son?" his father questioned.

Joey frowned. "That's not very nice, Dad."

His dad smiled and set a package in front of him.

Joey's face lit up. "My skateboard!" he exclaimed happily. He headed out to ride with his friends, but turned back and hastily hugged each of his parents. "Thank you," he whispered, "for my board and . . . and for waiting to give it to me. Now is so much better than my birthday would have been."

Truly, the Master Knows What's Best

Recently, I've been hearing a lot about the parable of the prodigal son. I've read it in books (specifically, The Return of the Prodigal Son by Nouwen and Surrender to Love by Benner), heard it in radio dramas (the AIO episode The Prodigal, Jimmy), and I'm sure heard it mentioned in a sermon or two.

Inevitably, hearing the story of the prodigal son leads me to reflect on the parable of the workers in the vineyard. Because I've always identified myself more with the jealous older son, the former parable brings up all the resentment and unfulfilled need for justice (specifically fairness) that lurks inside me. And, without fail, it reminds me of the jealous, "unfairly" treated first shift of workers in the latter parable.

I have an acute sense of "fair" and "unfair" as the world sees it. Right and wrong, black and white. That's how I naturally view the world on most occasions. In the case of what the Master does in His Kingdom, it definitely diverts my attention from the story He wants to craft. I'm overwhelmingly likely to be the one "grumbling against the landowner" because I didn't get more than what I originally agreed to--truthfully, more than what I deserve. (The whole idea of deserving at all was cleverly, creatively, and pretty thoroughly explored by my friend Chandler and since it's mostly a divergence from the actual topic of this post, I thought I'd just mention it as a "for further reading" type of thing.)

As I was discussing the above mentioned book, Surrender to Love with a pastor, I was able to delve a bit deeper into this parable than I ever have before. Two major points stood out to me about the correct response to the wages distributed:

1. The Master's Generosity

He specifically calls out the jealous workers for resenting His generosity. Now, I realize this parable is usually applied to "eleventh hour conversions" and such, but I think it holds a much deeper meaning for everyday life. Many people feel their sinful pasts form a barrier between them and God and how much God will use them. For those of us on the other side of the fence, we see God using those with sinful pasts and are prone to become the jealous workers: "How come God uses them in that way when I've never done xyz and they have?" In truth, we should be able to look upon the Landowner's generosity and say, "My Master is so merciful and so generous," and stand in awe of Him as well as allowing Him to move us toward that same compassionate generosity.

2. The Master's Intimate Knowledge

Something I feel is much more subtly alluded to in this story is how the Landowner knows the workers. He knew that even though the men had only worked for an hour, they'd miss a day's work--not because of laziness, but because no one had hired them--and still, in all probability, needed a day's wages. The Master knew what each needed.

But I believe this call goes much deeper than just trusting that He knows what we need. I think it's a draw for us to admire God's work in others. At it's maturation, it's celebrating others even when we feel we're entitled to what they're celebrating or keenly feel a need for what they're celebrating (such as a thirty-five-year-old single girl celebrating her little sister's marriage or someone who's been on a year-long job hunt celebrating a best friend getting his dream job, etc.).

Perhaps I'm seeing something that's not actually in the passage, but regardless, it's a good reminder of a profound truth: the Master knows what He's doing with each one of us and He's constantly drawing us into His story--for ourselves and for others.