TITLE: My Stick
By Clyde Blakely
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I had a stick. It was a fine stick, my stick. It was very useful and really quite versatile with so many applications.
When I was angry I could use it to beat someone over the head, or drive them off, or shame them, even poke at them, and, oh, so many other things I could use it for. If they were close – BAM – they got it. It didn’t matter how far away they were either. I got really good at slinging my stick and could clobber someone at great distances. I was a champ at using my stick.
My stick took different forms. It could be in words. My stick words could be harsh, or sweet with a smile, even used softly sometimes, or with no words at all, just silence. Words formed by body language were ideal on occasion. I got good at my stick’s facial expressions all the while enjoying seeing the damage my stick was doing. But the satisfaction of using my stick didn’t last very long and I’d have to wave it around again whenever threatened.
I’m not sure when I first found my stick or when I really learned to use it. It was early in life I know. I guess it was kind of like David with his sling. Years of target practice made him pretty good before he faced Goliath. I practiced almost every day with my stick. I really practiced sometimes. The older I got, the better I got and the bigger my stick became. I don’t know if I ever thought I might face a Goliath but I felt confident that if one came along – BAM, he’d get it.
Others knew of my stick. They knew how good I was with it because most everybody got whacked with it at least once. The fortunate ones had only heard about my stick from others or had seen the scars my stick left. I didn’t need any friends because my stick was my protection. I loved my stick.
One day God asked me for my stick. “No!” I would not give up my stick, not even fo God. Almost every day He asked for my stick. My answer was always the same. Very gently God was showing me that my stick was the thing that was keeping me from being happy. “Happy?” I asked. “Why should I give up my stick? I’m not happy except when I use my stick. Besides, there are a lot of other sticks out there. I’m keeping mine.”
“Give me your stick,” He kept asking.
I got tired of Him wanting my stick and asked Him what He was going to do with it, use it on me?
"I'm going to make a dross out of it."
“But my stick won’t make a very big cross."
"It takes a lot of sticks to make My cross. There are many sticks in the world and I want all of them.”
So, I gave Him my stick and He gave me the peace and happiness I never had with my stick.
He knows how to use sticks better than I.
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