I wanted a fancy doorbell. Not the kind that greeted you with a ding dong. Did I mention no ding dong? Believe me I mentioned it. There is no doubt the 20 times I repeated that important detail was beginning to sound like a recorded message in my husband’s ear! I wanted the kind that sang 50 songs ranging from Happy Birthday to the Halleluiah Chorus!
My hubby and I went to our local hardware store in search of the perfect doorbell. When we found it we stood on that aisle for at least 30 minutes looking it over, reading the box comparing all the other less than adequate candidates and then thoroughly going over the fact that THIS was the ONE!! I couldn’t have made it any clearer if I had written it with a marker on my forehead. It was
easy to remember because it was outnumbered by plain, generic ding dong doorbells. It boasted that it would “change for any holiday” and that “ringing your bell would never be the same!” I was a little too excited dreaming of the possibilities. I felt good about our time spent and the fact that he had held it is his hands and had seen firsthand, which one I had chosen.
The day was here that would change my life with the push of a button! The family was all gathered around for the occasion. You know how it is when you’ve been told you are getting something ahead of time? Something that you’ve been granted and just need to wait until it’s delivery into your sweaty little hands and the “go ahead” to open it. That’s right where I was when the unbelievable happened. No really, the unbelievable. I opened up my gift that I thought was the chosen, innovative, expressive chiming doorbell that would serenade our guests with song, only to discover, with what I’m sure was a look of appalling disbelief on my face, that what sat in front of me was not the doorbell we had found, discussed, researched and decided on but a regular doorbell that went ding dong.
I’m certain my reaction shocked those around me that weren’t fully informed with the process that had taken place, the agreement that had been made regarding this gift. Why had my husband completely disregarded my feelings, my request, his promise? I hadn’t only mentioned the doorbell in conversation or alluded to the hope of getting one. He had been given all the information he needed and still forgot or chose not to purchase it. How had this happened?
As I reflect on this confusing event, I am reminded of the verse James 1:24 “ Anyone who listens to the Word but does not do what it says is like someone who looks at his face in a mirror and after looking at himself, goes away and immediately forgets what he looks like.” This is what he had done. He had forgotten. Or had he chosen not to believe? Believe that my words were truth.
How many times have I done this same thing? Know, believe, even experience something and then forget. I am reminded of truth and refuse to obey it. I experience joy and then let the enemy drag me into the pit of despair. I sing praises with my mouth and curse someone the next. Am I any different than my husband who purchased the wrong doorbell or the one who looks at their face in the mirror only to walk away and forget what they look like, forget the truth?
When we look into the mirror do we see the one of a kind treasure that we are or do we compare ourselves with those around us and feel plain and ordinary with nothing to offer? Do we feel like the ordinary doorbell with only a simple song to sing? A song that doesn’t quite measure up with the other notes ringing out around us. Are we forgetting that we are fearfully and wonderfully made, just as we are?
His Spirit fills the hidden places of our hearts, speaking truth and love into our very existence. In Psalm 139: 14-15 we are reminded of our worth, uniquely woven by the hand of God, “I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
We were intended for a purpose exactly the way we were designed. We have a one of a kind flair and that is beautiful. God purposefully created each of us with our own song. It is a song that only we can sing. It isn’t sitting on the shelf at a hardware store beside 20 others just like it, waiting to be purchased and placed in our home just like our neighbor. It is hidden in the depths of our soul, on the pages of our heart and in each breathtaking detail that makes us, us. Not them, not her, but us. We are God’s creativity in motion. We are anything but random and nothing close to a copy. If we can see ourselves through the heartbeat of Jesus, the way He sees us, we will learn to remember. Remember our worth. I am thankful that when I forget, He gives me grace. More grace than I give others. More grace than I gave my husband.
My husband immediately went back to our local hardware store and exchanged the doorbell for the one I had wanted. It wasn’t long after it had been put in its proper place that it broke. It has been years now that instead of ringing through our home with a beautiful melody, it chokes out a few broken chords each time it is called upon. Somehow it hasn’t been replaced. It serves as a reminder that even broken, we can be used. When we are less, Christ is more. He uses our broken offerings and the imperfect song in our hearts for His glory.
If I could have had a say in what gifts I was given I would have chosen to sing like a bird. Instead I will be content to barely carry a tune and sing a joyful noise to the Lord. I would have chosen to be the extraordinary doorbell with a song that rings glorious throughout the house but in some ways I am the ding dong doorbell at best and I am at ease with that. Each has a story to tell.
May God open our eyes to see ourselves the way He does. May we desire the gifts we have been gifted and feel the gentle draw to embrace them only to give them away. We need not search for a doorbell that sings 50 songs, we need only to sing our song, our way and have faith that it will serenade the hearts of those who hear it.
Debbie K.
Debbie K.
