The Gift -- A Parable delivered in small packages
copyright 2002 by Bryan McAnally
When I arrived home, it was perched on my porch swing.
Sitting on the porch, or placed there by someone else
I wasn't sure, but it seemed to be waiting for me.
I asked my neighbor while he watered his petunias
if he knew from where this came.
He said a deliverer was looking for Connie Fuso.
So he pointed her to my door.
This newfound item was squarely confounding.
A cubic conundrum, so to speak.
I picked it up and took it in with me, determined to solve its riddle.
I held it in my hands, slowly turning it
examining it
questioning it
challenging it
pleading with it to explain itself.
It didn't respond.
It was if this crazy thing was secure in its own identity
as if I had to reconcile its existence with my own.
It was flawless. Without marks or blemishes.
I figured that if showed up on my doorstep, it was making itself available to me.
I figured it was up to me to make it what I wanted it to be.
I tried to sit on it -- it held my weight, but wasn't comfortable.
I tried to stand upon it -- but such heights give me vertigo
I tried to lean on it -- I kept falling when I'd prop it on its edge.
I tried to lay upon it -- my limbs hung over and grew numb
I tried to sleep on it -- it was clearly not designed to be a pillow, and my chiropracter got rich off that mistake.
I tried to sleep under it -- every time I tossed and turned, I cast it aside and grew cold.
I tried to eat on it -- my peas kept rolling off it, and my food wouldn't stay warm.
I tried to entertain it -- it seemed unmoved by my hilarity
I tried to be entertained by it -- okay, it was more enjoyable than a lot of the shows on TV, but I still got bored.
I tried to travel with it -- I always ended up dragging it or carrying it, and that became wearisome.
I tried to argue with it -- its stoic face seemed to refute all my profound logic
I tried to deny it -- but every day, I still found it there.
I hollered at it, cried to it, laughed at it, scorned it, mocked it, ridiculed it. I pleaded with it, teased it, cajoled it.
I bribed it, threatened it, abused it, belittled it, accused it for making my life so difficult.
And do you know what it reacted?
Nothing! How infuriating.
Just this morning, I was off to work, having just wasted another hour trying to (unsuccessfully) apply my make-up using one of its sides as a mirror,
when my neighbor (again, watering his petunias) said something very odd.
"Hey Conni," he said (that's not the odd part), "what was in the box?"
Excuse me?
"Yeah, the box you took in a while back. What was in it?"
I gave him a look that told him to stick his nose in his petunias and leave it there.
But really.
A box. That opens. And contains something inside of it.
How silly.
I tell you this, though. He's given me an idea.
When I get home, I'm going to pick that thing up, give it one more good look...maybe say something profound to it....
and put it in a box.