This short story was inspired by some recent conversations and written for a friend, however I do know quite a number of people who have also dealt with this issue, including myself. As you may already be aware via one of my latest blog posts, this is a subject I am most passionate about. Many of the Christians I know today struggle in one or more areas of insecurity, and my heart sincerely goes out to them with overwhelming compassion. To be completely honest with you, no one has any idea how much it pains me to learn that my fellow siblings in Christ feel insecure about the way they were made. I so wish I could wrap each and everyone these people in a big hug and tell them that they're awesome. If you are reading this, please let me assure you, right now, from the bottom of my soul - you are amazing. You are wonderful, cherished, treasured, and loved, just the way God made you, flaws and all. The Lord is doing a new thing in you; He is making you the best "you" you can be, and He values you more than life! I pray this story blesses you.


The allure of the switchboard was tantalizing.

Its shining array of buttons and dials made my fingers twitch with anticipation and temptation. What did all of them do? What function did they perform, and for what purpose did they exist? I would soon find out.

For many years, this expansive board of switches had been kept under my master’s most vigilant guard and – for a time – I had had no questions or doubts in my mind concerning it. The master always kept everything in perfect running order, and every one of the dials, switches and buttons were in their correct place. However as the years went by, I grew restless in my lot as his assistant. Helping was one thing, but knowing how the machines worked was another.

To be sure, I could keep their hydraulics oiled, and their outsides rust free. I could mend broken bolts and rewire minor circuitry. But I knew nothing about how these monstrosities were made, how they were run, and what their purposes were. I wanted to know, so I asked.

“I’m the only one who can know,” the master told me. “If I’m in control, you’ve no need to worry.”

But that was not enough for me. I wanted to be in control, I wanted to understand the way my master did.

So one day, whilst the master was attending to business elsewhere in the factory, I slipped my stolen key into the lock and opened the switchboard door. Peeking through the opening, I peered into the room. There was the switchboard – a glittering bank of controls humming quietly, all alone. Tingling with excitement, I approached the glowing panel of tiny lights, trying to decide just how I would run the machines all by myself.

Sitting down at the bench, I pulled the chair up close to examine the labels beneath all of the dials. I frowned at them. Some were listed under “personality”, others under “character” and still more beneath “Likes & Dislikes”. These bizarre labels confused me, and I puzzled over what they could mean. What kind of things such as these did mere machines need in order to be run? What exactly were these machines I helped to maintain?

For a brief moment I hesitated. Maybe the master really did know how best to run everything correctly… But curiosity overpowered my conscience, for I had come too far now to leave without discovering what some of these switches would do. Picking “humour” under “Personality”, I flipped the switch off, and watched the light die behind it. That seemed like a safe choice. I also switched off “shyness” and “generous”. I glanced down a list of knobs to my left, and noticed some dials set to varying degrees of high and low. Picking “confidence”, I twisted the knob all the way up to the highest setting with a sense of satisfaction. Confidence never went astray, did it? I became bolder, and flipped more switches, watching the lights die behind “humility” and “joy”. What did a machine need with those, anyway?

As I single-mindedly worked away at my task, I failed to notice a small screen light up on the opposite wall of the room. A wavering line tracked a slow course across the face of the glowing panel, and – with every switch I flipped – the line became more and more jagged; its erratic path taking on a hint of desperation as it did. I was unaware of it though, and I continued to recklessly alter apparently insignificant buttons and dials that I was certain the machines could not possibly need.

It was then a shrieking alarm suddenly blared from behind me, and I jumped out of my chair to turn and see a flashing light above the panel in the opposite wall.  The raucous alarm continued to blare and I knew that I should make my escape before I was discovered, but my eyes caught something familiar on the screen, and I stepped towards it to examine it more closely. As the red bulb pulsed its dull light across my face, I squinted at the writing displayed. With a jolt of shock, I realized that the recognizable words on the screen were my own name. It was flashing urgently, and the crooked line weaved all over the screen like a deranged heartbeat monitor. What had I done?

Suddenly a heavy hand fell upon my shoulder, and I cringed beneath it, knowing instantly who it was. I turned, and the master looked down at me sadly before moving to the switchboard. With the greatest of care, he readjusted all of the switches I had moved until the alarm finally died, filling the room with a dreadful silence I couldn’t bear.

“Why was it flashing my name?” I whispered meekly.

He looked at me quietly for a moment. “Because you changed yourself.”

I stared. “What – myself?  I thought I was controlling the machines–”

“The machines are merely metaphors – representations – of the different parts of who you are.” He walked to a window next to the switchboard and lifted the shade. I drew near and peered out. I gasped at the sight of a large metal monstrosity that was seething voluminous amounts of steam and smoke. Beyond it, I could see several smaller machines that were leaking oil, had radiators overheating, or had otherwise crashed into each other causing all manner of wreckage to their exteriors.

“They are… me?” I squeaked. “Why didn’t I feel it?”

“You would have, in time. You see,” the master explained, “each facet and intricate piece of you I designed a specific way for a specific purpose. The same way every part of these machines need to be designed exactly so to make them run smoothly, so you also need everything I have given you to live this life effectively.” He smiled a little.  “Remember when you chose me? I allowed you to work with me in honing those very parts of you to their fullest potential. But you wanted control I couldn’t give you.”

I hung my head, and let my gaze fall to my feet. “Why not?” My voice came out in a defeated, yet still accusing whisper.

“If I asked you to get into a vehicle you didn’t know how to drive and asked you to go to a place you’d never heard of, would you get there?”

Understanding began to dawn on me. “No,” I replied quietly.

The master ran his hand gently over the knobs and switches on the bank of dials. “I know how to drive,” He said softly, “and I know where your life is going. But if I told you how to do it yourself, the magnitude of the task would surely daunt you, and you would be unable to stay the course on your own.”

He continued. “Your place on this earth, your purpose, the way you were made; I designed uniquely for you. Changing yourself, and straying from who I created you to be only impedes your performance.” He pointed at the now quietly glowing line upon the screen that had been flashing my name moments before. “You cannot be who I created you to be if you turn your switches off. You cannot fulfil the destiny I have planned for you without everything I have put in you, the way I set them to be. The alarm sounded because your life had gotten off course.”

I watched the slow line, and silently thought over what the master had told me, deeply wondering in my heart about myself, and who I was inside. There were many things I so wished I could change in me… I hated that I was often shy, or that my joyful spirit often came across as silly or childish. I didn’t like my lack of confidence that always left me feeling insecure and doubtful about myself, and I loathed my self-centeredness that so frequently chose to overlook the needs of others. I longed to be more outgoing, or the kind of person who found it easy to be sensible and mature.

“Why… couldn’t I be more like I want to be?” I whispered, a single tear rolling down my face.

He smiled. “Because then you wouldn’t be you. I don’t need another someone else.”

I couldn’t help but smile a little. He was always telling me I was special because I was the only one of me.

“Do I have a purpose, just the way I am?” I asked, still seeking reassurance about myself.

The master’s eyes sparkled. “A most glorious one, haven’t I always said so?”

He had. I marvelled how I could have doubted the maker who had made me the way I was. Did not the maker know his creation better than anyone else – better than the creation itself?

I still puzzled over the things in myself that I felt weren’t right; my character traits and sinful habits that I knew were far from perfect... Were they a part of me too?

“Can I be a better ‘me’, and still be who I was created to be?” I so wanted to be more than I was. Not different… but the best me I could be.

His soft chuckle made me look up. “Only if you’re willing to let me drive, and let me help you become all you are destined to be.” He lifted his hand and held out an oil can with a loving smile. “And – if you’re willing to assist me.”

Joy filled my heart as I looked into his eyes – the eyes of my master. Who better to trust with who I was, and where my life was going? Had he not proven himself over and over again? Profound gratitude flooded my soul, and I felt something release inside me; relief washing over me as I reached out and took the can with shining eyes. “I am willing.”

We both left the switchboard room together, and I didn’t look back as the master closed and locked the door behind him.


There are some parts of our lives that need the rust scraped off them; some parts that need oiling, other parts that need replacing. There are those intricate pieces that need polishing so that they will function at peak performance, and there are other parts of our lives that are have been shattered and deeply buried; brokenness that affects our entire lives and must be rooted out and mended before our lives can run on track again.
There are some rooms in our lives that need de-cluttering:  rooms that need scrubbing, dusting, sweeping, or rooms that simply need to be lived in. There are rooms that need the shades to be lifted so that the Light can shine in; rooms that need to be prepared and ready for the future. But some rooms – like the switchboard room – should never be entered by anyone but the Master. He alone knows the right settings that will achieve our purpose in life, and only He knows the way home.

This is a short story that was result of a word war with +Matthew Lacey whilst he was up visiting. We picked three random words from the dictionary to include, so as to make the word war more difficult: nursery, gnash, & rationality. Though I only got the first 100 or so words written in the five minutes we were writing and in no way completed the story, I had been given enough of an idea to run with, and this was what I ended up with after working on it later. Let me know what you think!




Blackness pressed against my eyes painfully; so much so, that it awoke me from my sleep. Sleep - when had I gone to sleep? I sat up abruptly as my eyes flew open, hitting my head against something cold and hard with a resounding smack. I groaned and reached up to nurse my throbbing forehead.  As I peered about the darkness in a daze, I wondered where I was and how I got there.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

I started as my voice shouted back to me in an echo that reverberated off the cavernous walls of my prison. It seemed I was alone.

Suddenly a zephyr of wind brushed past me and a chilly voice spoke from the gloom.

“Yes.”

“Who are you?” I asked fearfully.

“We are here to show you your life.”

With that, a sudden light filled the cavern, and I hastily lifted my hand to shield my eyes from the glare. As I squinted into focus, a screen appeared before me, blinking and shifting like something from an 80’s cinema. Then amazingly, I saw my life played out before me - my early nursery days, my childhood, teen years, married, retired – it seemed as if I were looking out through the eyes of my soul, recalling all the days I ever lived. As I stared in wonderment, the memories came flooding back: good ones that I smiled at; harsh ones at which I gnashed my teeth together inwardly at the recollection of their pain. Why was I being shown this? Had I died? Was this like my last look on life before I was committed to the earthy depths of the grave?

The tape that seemed to be running the reel of my life ended, and the room was dark again.

“What did you see?” The ominous voice asked from the blackness.

I didn’t understand. “I saw my life, just as you said you’d show me.” I answered, matter-a-factly. “What was I meant to see?”

The light flooded the cavern again, and I flinched against it.

“Watch it again.”

I rolled my eyes a little, my typical cynicism leeching back into my clouded mind. What was this, some prank before my 80th birthday tomorrow? I chuckled a little and figured it would be something my kids would do as I leaned back on the cold floor, wincing at the pain in my rheumatic joints as I did.

I looked attentively at the screen again as the film began, but this time the tape seemed different. I frowned confusedly, my rationality trying to decipher just what was different about the same scenes I had just observed. Everything was the same, yet different somehow... All of a sudden, I realized - every scene was from the perspective of the people I was with, not from my own. My eyes widened as I leaned forward to see my own memories played back to me in the way others remembered them. The truths, the lies, the hurts: my heart squeezed tighter within me the longer I watched. All the suffering I had caused people by my careless words! The heartache, and the anger that I had brought into others’ lives. How could I have not seen that? I so wished then and there that I could go back in time and erase the things that I had said and done that were so callously negligent of the feelings of others. As my life was drawing to a close in the film before me, tears slipped down my cheeks as I realized how few the good memories of me were, and how extensively the bad ones overwhelmed them. My wife, my children, my friends and family - these I considered most dear, and yet I had hurt them worse than anyone else by my self-centeredness.

How could I have been so blind, so heartlessly careless about the lives and hearts of those around me?

The light flickered ever so slightly, and then died; leaving me cold and alone in the dark, with naught but my sobs echoing off the dank walls to break the silence.

The voice cut into my thoughts again, but this time it seemed less chilling; less condemning, somehow...

“You saw what you were meant to see.”

There was a slight movement beside me and I let out a cry as I felt myself falling into a void; spinning and writhing into the plunging darkness.



I gasped aloud and sat bolt upright in my bed, heart pounding violently against my ribcage. I glanced around apprehensively, and quickly took in the décor of my room, the furniture, and the sun just peeking over the horizon; its bright rays shining into my room. I swung my legs out of bed, and I noticed that my knees were no longer hurting. Jumping up, I dashed to my bathroom and flipped on the light to look into the mirror.

A young man’s face stared back at me, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. Not a single wrinkle marked his face, and his eyes held the spark of youth. I remembered now. It had only been a dream.

Taking a deep breath, I glanced down to my bathroom bench, and spied my open wallet where I had left it the night before. The photo that was taken of me and my wife-to-be gazed back up at me; both of us smiling as we cut our engagement party cake. Something clicked inside me at the sight of it, and I knew that God had spoken to me. I had seen an alternate future, and because of it, my life would never be the same.

Have you ever had your life flash before your eyes before you even lived it? How different would your life be if you saw what I did?

Waiting inside the car in the pouring rain for friends to arrive, I looked up from my iPod at a snicker from my companion.

"Look," She said, pointing.

I glanced out the front windscreen to see a car parked lengthwise in front of us. Through the dreary weather, I could see our brothers inside the car, pressing their faces up against the breath-fogged windows and waving at us like maniacs.

I grinned and chuckled. "Brothers," I said. "They make life fun."

"Well... I dunno," my friend's sister replied, unconvinced. "Sometimes things would be a lot quieter without them."

"If I had to choose between living in a family of girls or a family with boys, I'd choose the one with boys every time." I responded with feeling.

"Really?!" She burst out.

"Why, you wouldn't?" I asked, surprised.

As some of you may know, I have recently returned from a twelve day trip to Tasmania with my family. (And in case you know very little about Australian geography, Tasmania is the little triangle island at the bottom - not a country in Africa) We have been frequent visitors there for the purpose of catching up with good friends and family, however very rarely have we ever been able to see any tourist attractions as we are usually too busy attending to various events, travelling, and visiting people while there. This time though, we endeavoured to do as much "touristy stuff" as possible!

The beginning of our trip began early. Like, really early. Quarter to three in the morning early. We were all yawning and gathering last minute stuff in the dead of the morning on about three hours sleep. (I was too energized to get much more) Once on the road, some of us tried to snooze, but mostly we just listened to tunes and chatted all the way to Sydney airport, a two and a half hour's drive. Listening to the Piano Guys in the wee hours of the morning is a great way to pass time.

Arriving at the airport, we dumped all our luggage on the sidewalk, and let Dad and Jacob take our Suburban to the airport parking down the road whilst we hustled everyone into the terminal along with our ten tonnes of baggage dragging along behind us. Checking in at 6:30am was a nightmare, and I was just aching to see another Australian face, as it felt as though I had walked through the doors of a transporter and landed in the middle of China. It's hard to believe just how many different nationalities live in Sydney! After checking in all our luggage, we went through security screening with a lot less paraphernalia in tow, and sat down at the nearest café table to wait for Dad and Jacob. We had breakfast of hard boiled eggs and yoghurt whilst we waited. It made for light travelling with such an easy breakfast. I sat at the table kicking my foot and trying to download Myst on my iPod with the terminal's poor wifi connection until Dad and Jacob turned up. They slung down their breakfast quickly and we made our way to our gate where - miracle of miracles! - we didn't even have to sit down and wait, it was boarding as we got there. So we got straight in line and were on the plane without any waiting period! It was the first time we jagged it so well.

22nd February, 2013, sitting in a beachside park, Blackmans Bay, Tasmania.

I love to watch people.

Not really sure why. They are so fascinating, and as a silent observer, I find so many things in them to ponder. Strangers seem to tell stories about themselves without even saying a word.

I pass a group of young people loitering on the street. Their casual dress, loose body language and gang-like appearance make me feel a threatening undercurrent that I quickly walk away from. I imagine they are nothing more than small afraid children on the inside, though. Insecure, shallow people who truly don't understand life. I feel a pang of sympathy for them.

An elderly lady walking her dog wanders by where I sit. She smiles, and I smile back as I comment on her dog. The old woman is small, and her face bears many wrinkles. Did she have a hard life, I wonder? Did she have a lot of heartache and pain, or was her life kind to her? Does she have any regrets? Or any family even, to go home to? My face relates none of my busy thoughts as she continues on her way.

Two young men on bicycles pass me, and I busy myself looking at my pen and paper as they do, not wanting to draw attention to myself. Why do I do that? Mayhap I could've smiled at them, and treated them with that much kindness, at least. But no; I fear their worldly looks and manner more than I wish to show them any Christian love. They cycle off and I wonder where they are going. Are they going home? Or to have a night on the town? Do they have parents who love them, or do they cry themselves asleep at night, hungry for a love and kindness no matter how small - like what I could have give? By now though, it is too late.