Pearls

My mother-in-law gave me The Shack for Christmas 2008. As was her resourceful style—that was lovingly appreciated—she read books before passing them on. I think it was her way of opening up more common conversation with her recipient. I read with sadness and curiosity. Sadness because we’d never get to talk about the book together; Grammie passed away two days after Christmas 2008. And curiosity from wondering what prompted Grammie to share The Shack with me?

As I drove south—remember, alone—next to the majestic snow-blanketed Sierra, I listened to the CD of the author giving explanation to his writing of The Shack. I had not realized I was so ravenous for any personal revelations until I popped the CD in for third time, kind of like popping in a couple of carob malt ball, and then suddenly I'm at the bottom of the empty bag.

Could it be that this author's experiences leading up to his own shack held nuggets of truth for me as well? The messages were precious, like tiny, aged pearls from Grammie’s jewel box. The author simply strung the pearls together for me. And it’s as if God now has this elegant strand of smooth pearls draped over his outstretched palm waiting for me to accept it.

I’m undecided if I’m the kind of woman who can pull off pearls.

If Grammie thought so and if God thinks so, maybe I can at least try on some pearls and see if they're right for me.