Years ago, I wrote a simple parable to capture what God was teaching me about cherishing the children He has given me. May this story remind us to trust our Father's heart.
The Mark of the Master
A Parable for Parents
By: Alicia Bruxvoort
Once upon a time there lived a maker of dolls. Day in and day out, the doll maker’s gentle hands crafted masterpieces that danced in little girls’ dreams. He made dolls with silken hair and dolls with soft bald heads; dolls with ruddy cheeks and dolls with pale porcelain skin; dolls with eyes of brown, eyes of blue, eyes as dark as a moonless night. Dressed in gowns of velvet or swaddled in sleepers of silk, each doll was as unique as the blessed child for whom it had been made. Upon the craftsman’s insistence, no doll was like another. From all corners of the globe, people traveled to request a doll shaped by the master’s hands. And in all corners of the globe, little girls giggled with glee as they beheld the masterpiece that had been entrusted into their care.
It just so happened that the craftsman had a young daughter of his own. For years, the little girl had dreamed of having a doll to call hers. Not just any doll, but one crafted by the hands of her own father.
When the doll maker returned home at the end of a long day, the little girl would greet her Daddy at the door and ask, “What did you make today, Father?”
Eyes aglow, the doll maker would tell his youngest daughter of the silken hair he had sewn onto a sleepy doll’s head or the rosy lips he had painted with care. The little girl would listen with delight; then, cupping her Father’s face in her hands, she would peer into his loving eyes and whisper, “Did you make one for me today?”
With no touch of reproach, the jovial craftsman would sweep his youngest into his arms; hold her close, and reply, “Not today. But when the time is right, I will entrust you with a masterpiece.”
So the years passed and the little girl clung to her Father’s promise until one starless night her father walked through the door with a package tucked tenderly under his arm. As always, the sweet girl greeted him with a kiss. “What did you make today, Father?”
On this night, the gentle maker knelt on one knee and pulled the oblong package from beneath his arm. “Why don’t you see for yourself what I’ve been busy with,” he said.
The little girl could scarcely believe her eyes. Her delicate hands trembled as she tugged at the silky ribbons binding the box. With a squeal, she stripped away the paper, and then turned to her father for help. With strong hands, he opened the wooden crate and lifted out the most beautiful doll the little girl had ever seen.
Tenderly, the craftsman placed his masterpiece into his daughter’s outstretched arms. “Oh, Daddy!” the young girl cried, “I thought you had forgotten my wish.
“Darling daughter,” the great maker responded, “I know your soul’s desires. I would never forget.” Wrapping his little girl in a strong embrace, the craftsman whispered, “Since the day I first held you in my arms, I have been designing your doll in my heart.” He paused and gazed deep into his child’s earnest eyes,
“And now I am entrusting my masterpiece to you. Take good care of it, my child. There is none like it in the entire world.”
His daughter watched in awe as her daddy lifted the miniature gown of silk to reveal the body he had so tenderly shaped. With a solemn nod, the craftsman pointed to a mark that his daughter knew well. Branded discreetly on the lovely doll’s thigh was a small brown cross. It was her father’s insignia, the mark that identified the maker. Without it, the doll was still beautiful; but with it, the doll was priceless. And so the daughter’s wish was granted. She promised her father that she would love and cherish his gift forever.
The days passed quickly as the little girl delighted in her new doll. She marveled at its silky locks of gold and gazed deep into its sky blue eyes. She loved to listen to the joyous coos that came from somewhere inside of the perfectly crafted doll. She spent hours cuddling her gift and dreaming of what they would do together in the years to come.
But by and by, the young girl began to study other dolls. When her friends came to play with dolls in hand, the craftsman’s daughter took note of their toys. She noticed dolls with shiny black hair and tan skin. She spotted dolls that talked and dolls that crawled. One day she even met a girl whose doll walked across the room. It was hard and stiff with metallic arms and legs, but it walked; nonetheless, and the high-tech toy struck spectators with awe. Suddenly, the masterpiece that belonged to the doll maker’s daughter seemed a bit dull and old fashioned.
The craftsman’s daughter began to wonder if her Father had really given her the right doll after all. He had said he’d designed it just for her, but perhaps her Father didn’t really know her heart. Maybe her doll would have been better suited for someone else. Convinced she’d been given the wrong gift, the doll maker’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 affectionately at his youngest child. “Dear daughter, the doll I have given you is exactly what you need. I would never have given it to you if it that were not so.” The craftsman planted a tender kiss on his daughter’s head and encouraged her to enjoy the doll with which she had been entrusted.
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.”
That night, while her father slept, the young girl took her beautiful doll and chopped 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, the dirt would be disguised. I shouldn’t have to work so hard to keep my dolly clean.” So, without another thought, the impatient girl slathered the doll’s fair skin with a thick layer of chocolate brown paint.
Soon after, the craftsman’s daughter grew irritated with the coos that bubbled from the depths of her priceless doll. “I want my doll to talk. Then she would be good company for a girl like me.” Determined to alter her gift until it was exactly what she wanted, the growing girl followed the winding road out of town one starless night. 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 craftsman agreed to cut open her father’s masterpiece and reprogram the toy.
Days later, the master’s daughter toted home her new-and-improved-black-haired-brown-skinned-sentence-spewing doll.
The young girl beamed 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 day’s end. She ceased sitting at his feet to enjoy late night chats by the fire, and avoided his attempts to spend time with her. She couldn’t explain it, but deep inside, the girl felt ill at ease with the master craftsman.
To plug the void that her father’s company had once filled, she kept busy planning more ways to make her doll everything her heart desired. She popped out the blue eyes and replaced them with mysterious black. She even began to investigate the possibility of amputating her doll’s intricately stitched legs. Replacing the soft limbs with a mechanical variety would enable the master’s creation to walk.
Then one day, a knock on her bedroom door pulled the master’s daughter from her reverie. Skeptically, she opened the door a crack. On the other side stood her father, eyes of love dancing at the sight of his youngest child.
“What are you doing here?” the girl asked.
“I’m looking for you,” chuckled the craftsman. “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?”
“Father,” the young girl drawled, “Are your eyes going bad? My doll is there on the bed.”
Confused, the doll’s creator moved towards the strange looking creature plopped atop the fluffy pink blankets. Stringy strands of cheap black hair hung from the toys head. Brittle layers of brown paint covered its unrecognizable body. Strange words came from the toy’s mouth while vacant black eyes met the master’s.
“Who crafted such a sad sight?” the old doll maker wondered as he reached for the motley mess. Turning to his daughter, the craftsman asked,
“Whose toy is this, child?”
“Don’t you recognize it?” the girl scoffed. “That’s the doll you made me! Can’t you identify your own creation when you see it?” The doll maker stared at the odd creation for a long quiet moment.
“Surely this is not the work of my hands,” he cried. Desperately, the craftsman lifted the discolored layers of silk that adorned the doll. With worn fingers he scratched away the crusty paint as if 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 wrinkled hands to wipe the tears from his eyes, the young girl caught a glimpse of something she had forgotten was there. Tucked discreetly below her doll’s thigh on the leg she had planned to replace, sat a small brown cross: the mark of the master.
Realizing he was holding a remnant of his craftsmanship, the doll maker sank to the ground in despair. “What have you done?” he cried. “This is not the doll I designed for you. If not for my mark, I would never have recognized it as a work of my hands.”
“I told you I wanted a different doll,” the girl argued. “You just wouldn’t listen.”
The flippant words were more than the great craftsman could bear. Cupping his daughter’s head in his hands, he washed her golden locks with tears.
“My child,” he grieved, “The doll I gave you was exactly what you needed to grow into the woman you were created to be. All you needed to do was trust my heart and accept my gift.”
