Doll's House Deliberations . . .

When I was about 10, my much loved grandfather gave me a doll's house
Not just any doll's house
A magnificent double storeyed one, with a hand carved varnished staircase curving up to the top floor
And a lawn of green felt, complete with silver pool and tiny hat-decorating flowers.
My grampa had spent months crafting this masterpiece with his careful carpenter hands.
Undoubtedly inwardly smiling at the joy he knew I would get from it.
I can imagine him stooped over his work bench, humming quietly as he worked, his clever gentle hands patiently perfecting each detail.

This memory has the ability to make me deeply happy and deeply sad at the same time.
Because I loved that doll's house.
And I played with it a lot: sitting alone on the floor, lost in the intricate events, peopled by my rich imagination.
And I know my grampa would have been delighted at seeing that.

But then, I got careless
Maybe some other toy grabbed my attention more
I cant remember
But I do know this -
I left the doll's house outside in the rain and the wind
It warped; it buckled; the wood split and splintered; the felt faded and lifted and the tiny flowers fell off.
It was a ruin.
At the time, I hardly noticed and I don't think I really cared.
My grampa never said a word, neither did his attitude towards me ever change.

Today it is one of those things that catch at my heart whenever I think of it.
I think of who he was -
What he did for me -
And how he loved me.
How could I have taken so lightly -
Have so undervalued -
Have so scorned -
The gift given with such love
One that took so much time and devotion to create and perfect?!

That thought leads me on -
To the gift that God gave me in Christ.
And the doll's house story stands, for me, as a parable, a gentle but strong reminder. . .