The Land of the Workers

I lived amongst a great people, a vast multitude of workers.  In this dusty land we worked day in and day out, building and mending, creating and planning. We traded in the market place, counted our achievements and kept careful record of all we had done. All I knew was what I had done and who I was in comparison to my fellow workers. I would keep a careful eye on their creations, even whilst working on my own.  Some could carry heavy loads or run far distances, some were beautiful and confident and some seemed to have many friends. I would make delicate artwork and speak wise words, but there was someone always just down the street who could do the same thing. I would learn of far away mysteries but there was always someone who understood more than I did.

 Over time, my place in the land of the workers seemed to always be under threat, even though no one ever said anything. If I failed, if I slowed down, if I said the wrong thing, I would be banished. Cast out into the streets amongst the beggars, those endlessly sad people who would spend their days waiting upon someone to drop a crumb of worthiness into their hungry hands. I would lie awake at night measuring my own achievements against my neighbours, those who had the title of friend but were my biggest competition. I would calculate whether what I had done that day would be enough to keep me in a position worthy of these people. I was always tired and my eyes grew weary from always looking around to the work of others. In fact, sometimes my own work was neglected because I looked too often at what the hands of others were creating. 

One day there was a great commotion in the streets, the King was coming! Instead of preparing a feast for Him, instead of laying down a carpet for His feet or singing songs of welcome, all the people worked harder, made more, stayed up later and got up earlier.... For the King would want to see all our hard work, He would count up our achievements and tell us if we were good enough.

The day arrived and the streets were bustling with people working as hard as they could, looking busy and saying important things. I took out my best artwork and continued working on it as He came down the street, trying my best to look like this took all my energy and that everything I had was being put into this work. When He came by, His feet stopped beside me and those royal hands moved aside my work without even looking at it. He crouched down and smiled into my face. I started babbling about all I had done, asking Him if He wanted to see it, giving Him the long lists I had prepared of all that I had achieved. His gentle eyes suddenly became sad and I didn’t know what to do, for I had just offered the King the best of my work and it had only made Him sad! I told Him I would work harder, I could do better... but He silenced me.  He led me inside my house and did not even look at all my treasures, He drew the curtain over them in fact, so it was just us. 

He asked me how I was doing, so I told Him what I had been working on.

He asked me about what I loved, so I told Him of achieving.

He asked me what I wanted, so I told Him of being better.

Then, in the twilight of that summer evening, He told me the stories of where I came from. He spoke of dancing and dreaming, of laughter and rest. He spoke of days where people would sit and talk without working, of days that children were taught how to play before they were taught how to work. The King told me of His love for me, how He thought of me constantly, how He longed to spend time with me but I was never available, I was always working. He told me how when He walked through these streets, He was looking for eyes to catch His, for someone to walk beside Him, but no one did because we wanted to impress Him with our work. I was told of how my ability to create and build, to fix and plan was put there by Him, He taught me, but it was never supposed to be like this. As He left I watched Him, saw how He lifted up those begging in the dirt, gave them hope and how they followed Him. I saw how the children would long to run after Him but their busy parents held them back, saying there was too much to do.

In the weeks following, my work didn’t feel the same. My hands ached to embrace stillness and wonder. My eyes stopped straying to the work of others, I didn’t care anymore if they were doing more than me. When a neighbour showed me her clay vase I was able to compliment her on her craftsmanship without silently planning to make something better. My mind dwelled on the words of the King, that I was made for more than work... My life was always meant to be a celebration, a dance, like the river that flowed through the dusty land.

The workers who had not met the King would look sideways at me as my hands slowed down, as I spent time with the beggars and the children, leaving my work sitting for hours at a time. I heard their whispers that I was wasting my talent but I knew that in fact I was learning the purpose for my talent. They would tell me of their achievements and I started learning how to look past their hands and see their eyes, beautiful stories hidden in them of struggle and survival, of a longing for something more... If I looked there long enough, the work would be forgotten and a connection that was made long ago could be found.

I spent time with the King every day, we would sit and talk and He would tell me of His plans, of His desires. He would whisper to me about the fears of the beggars and the struggles of my neighbours and I knew He trusted me to talk to them, to love them and offer them comfort. He taught me how to speak the language of rest and freedom instead of work and comparison. I learned how to work with joy, to work for a purpose but to not be defined by it.

I’m still learning.

Sometimes I long to just go and live in the palace with the King, but I know that there is many who are stuck here in the land of the Workers, so I must remain until they too know to speak the language of freedom, so we can leave this place together.