Why did he give me this gift?
It was such a wonderful thing, when he handed it to me, all wrapped in a bow bigger than my head, its beautiful, shimmering shell folded so neatly together, the etched scrollwork dancing in the light, drawing the eye ever further along each intricate detail. I was so absorbed, I barely registered his instructions.
"This gift is not yours alone, my son. It is a gift for everyone. It was given to be shared."
That's all fine and good, thought I, but if I am to share it, I must first see and understand what it is, so that I can help others to enjoy it, too.
Ah, foolish vanity, I wish you weren't so deeply engrained in my heart.
I unwrapped the bow and caressed the metal-leafed shell, all drawn up like a monstrous acorn. Feeling the detail of the etchings sent a thrill through my fingertips. What could it be?
As I worked my way wonderingly around it, I discovered a palm-sized key protruding from the further side. I put my hand to it, but it resisted. Laying both my hands on it, I slowly twisted the key, ratcheting it around until I could turn it no more. As soon as I let go, the mechanisms inside began to whir, gears engaging, joints unfolding. Twelve petals unfurled like a blossom welcoming the sun. Inside was the most wondrous machine my eyes have ever beheld. It had arms and legs, and more moving parts than I can begin to describe.
When the petals had opened fully, the machine stood up and began to move about the room. My heart leapt with raptures of delight. This was his gift to me? How clever he must think me!
Moving about the room, the machine went to work. It was difficult to follow everything it was doing, its multitude of arms and legs nearly a blur of motion, but soon I began to see. It was a highly unpredictable machine. At times, it would move with such grace and musical harmony of sound, that it seemed to dance, picking up various objects to clean or mend, replacing them with balletic flourish. Other times, it seemed to lose its rhythm, the dance becoming a herky-jerky staccato, gears clattering in against one another. At these times, trying to mend one object it would break another, or spill the dust of the room in the corner, or miss a turn and send objects scattering about.
My initial delight grew into frustration. Why does it not work right? I asked myself, Surely there must be something wrong. He would never make something that doesn't work right. And so, to my shame, I took it upon myself to fix what he had made.
I waited for the machine to reach one of its off-kilter moments, then I rushed upon it and seized as many of its arms as I could, in order to help it regain its rhythm. At first, I succeeded and it mended more than it broke, but each time, it grew more difficult. The machine fought me more, almost as though it were designed this way.
But that's impossible! I knew, He gave it to me, made it for me, so why would he not make it to obey me?
And so I redoubled my efforts. Fighting tooth and nail to help this poor, misguided machine to better do what it was so clearly designed to do, help me. I wrenched at the arms, pushed it around on its spindly legs, guided it firmly from place to place, forcing it to do what was right. Yet, the more I tried, the more things went wrong.
Then, without warning, it happened. Well, perhaps it did warn me with the protesting grinding of the gears and screech of metal on metal. The arm that clutched a china cup snapped off in my hands as I tried to help the machine clean it without breaking it. Time slowed down as the arm gave way, slipping from my surprised grasp, sending the cup twirling across the room. The cup and I hit the ground at the same time. I was stunned, but unharmed. The cup was not so fortunate.
"Look what you've done, you infernal machine! Your clumsiness broke my cup!"
As if sensing something wrong, the machine slowed and turned toward me. The loss of the arm seemed to throw off the balance, causing it to stumble and trample on my foot.
"How dare you!"
I kicked out at the offending leg, to teach the machine a lesson, but the leg snapped, dropping the entire weight of the machine in my lap, forcing the wind out of me. In my panic of being crushed, I struck the machine repeatedly, pulling at it, pushing at it, until parts gave away. When I realized the machine was no longer pressing upon me, I discovered arms, legs, gears, mechanisms of all kinds were lying in piles all around me.
"Serves you right, you stupid machine. You didn't do anything right and when I tried to help you, all you did was hurt me."
But as I gazed on the mess I had made, my shame overwhelmed me. He gave me a gift to share, and in my selfishness, I destroyed it. Now all I was left with was a banged up body, piles of parts, and a broken cup.
I hung my head between my knees and I wept.
Why did he ever give me this gift?
