The Pearl Necklace

The thought of spending another hour in my car was daunting. It was cold outside (for LA), I'd just finished a lovely glass of Zinfandel, and all I wanted to do was curl up in my new blue fuzzy sweatpants, eat the frozen brownies I have stashed in my freezer, and watch "Fringe" with my roommate.

But then I heard it.

The bittersweet sound of my good conscience.

"You should go, Diana. You can't drive an hour for God?" It said.

I wanted to ignore it, but I knew in my heart that I needed to go to the Foundry, Bel Air Presbyterian's youth group, that meets on Tuesday nights. I quickly responded to my friend's e-mail asking if I wanted to join her.

"I'll see you there!" I typed and then hurried to finish making my dinner so I could make it in time.

As usual, that pesky little voice that I often try so hard to drown out, was right. I really did need to be there last night. Without going into an exorbitant amount of detail, an opportunity presented itself to me yesterday, and I was struggling to decide whether I should grab hold of it with all my might, or drop it like a hot potato. In the end, I went for the hot potato method.

While it would be nice, neat and Hollywood cute to say that I made my decision all because of the story that the guest speaker preached to us last night, I already knew in my gut that the opportunity wasn't right for me. Regardless, the story struck a chord with me -- so much so, that on my 30-minute drive home last night, I relayed it to my mother. And now, I will relay it here (with a few of my own dramatic embellishments).

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Once upon a time, a young girl named Sammie and her father were having dinner at Cici's Pizza, a pizza buffet-type restaurant that is apparently absurdly popular in areas other than Southern California. As Sammie was polishing off a greasy slice of their pepperoni, she noticed the arcade section tucked away in the corner of the eatery. There was the usual Pac-Man, some sort of race car game that did not appeal to her feminine sensibilities at all, and "the Claw."

Sammie abandoned her pizza and approached "the Claw" game. She peered through the glass and saw a beautiful pearl necklace in the middle of the mostly egregious pile of toys. Her eyes grew large with desire, and she begged her dad to let her play. He agreed, and Sammie immediately beginning feeding her hard-earned allowance into the machine. Yet try as she might, she couldn't seem to catch the necklace. Her dad was beginning to grow impatient, but Sammie was so enamored by the necklace that she couldn't walk away. Finally after 30 minutes had passed, she was down to her last quarter. This was it. Her last chance to get the necklace.

She slipped the quarter through the slot and narrowed her eye in concentration. She moved quickly -- pushing the controller so the claw stopped just above her coveted prize and held her breath as she watched it drop. Please, please, please, she thought as the claw closed around the necklace. Maneuvering the claw over to the exit hole, her heart nearly exploded in joy -- she'd won it! She'd won the beautiful pearl necklace!

For the next few months, Sammie wore the necklace every day. It went with her everywhere she went -- the park, school, even to the swimming pool. As time passed by, the necklace started to show its age. The paint was chipping off, the thread was wearing thin and it no longer had the lustrous sheen it did when Sammie had first seen it at the arcade. Yet despite its appearance, Sammie still loved it -- it was her most prized possession and she never took it off.

During this time, Sammie's father had begun a strange ritual every night when he tucked her into bed. He would always ask her the same question -- "Sammie, can I have your necklace?" and Sammie would always give him the same answer -- "No Dad, I worked so so hard for it and I spent all my allowance on it and I love it so much! I can't give you the necklace."

After months of this back-and-forth, Sammie started to think that maybe she should give her dad the necklace. If he kept asking for it, he probably had a good reason to want it. One night, before he came in to her room, she decided that this time when he asked she would give it to him. Her trust in him was greater than her love for the necklace.

When her dad came in, he again asked her, "Sammie, can I have your necklace?" and Sammie looked up at him, at his wise compassionate eyes, and nodded. She slowly took the necklace off and slipped it into his hand. Her father smiled, patted her head and took a velvet bag out of his pocket. He reached in and pulled out the most beautiful real pearl necklace that Sammie had ever seen -- better than anything she could have ever imagined or ever bought for herself with her measly allowance. It was perfect.

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The message that comes across here is one of sacrifice -- giving up something that we think is important to obtain something more amazing than we could ever imagine from God. To me, the beautiful pearl necklace signified the opportunity I am meant to embrace -- not the crusted, tattered one that I wanted to be the right thing earlier in the day. Even if the connection isn't picture perfect or, as I mentioned earlier, "Hollywood cute," I still felt as though it was somehow relevant to my crisis.

Today, as I set on my couch drinking another glass of red Zin, I felt perfectly at peace. I know that God has a plan for me, and I know that it will be better than I can even begin to imagine. I just have to trust Him and give myself fully to His grace.