Worthy

I’ve been thinking about this word.

I want you to think about a beautiful crisp hundred dollar bill, it’s got that shiny reflective blue strip through it. It’s edges are all intact, it’s brand new straight from the U.S. Bureau of Engraving and Printing.

Now think about that torn up, beat up hundred dollar bill. The one that has been handled by thousands of people over it’s life time. The one that’s stained, crumbled up, and dirty.

Which one is worth more?

That’s the funny part here. They are worth the exact same.

Now I don’t want to get to spiritual here, but worth is determined by the creator.

If you think of the worth of a American dollar bill, that is determined by the U.S. Department of Treasury who is in charge of the production of money.

A humans worth is determined by God himself, the one who created us all.

Our worth is NOT determined by what we do or don’t do.

That hundred dollar bills value did not change throughout the course of it’s travels, mishaps and experiences.

It reminds me of this tender, precious poem written by Myra Brooks Welch in 1921.

’Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer

Thought it scarcely worth his while

To waste much time on the old violin,

But held it up with a smile:

“What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried,

“Who’ll start the bidding for me?”

“A dollar, a dollar”; then, “Two!” “Only two?

Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?

Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;

Going for three—” But no,

From the room, far back, a gray-haired man

Came forward and picked up the bow;

Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,

And tightening the loose strings,

He played a melody pure and sweet

As a caroling angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer,

With a voice that was quiet and low,

Said, “What am I bid for the old violin?”

And he held it up with the bow.

“A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?

Two thousand! And who’ll make it three?

Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice,

And going, and gone!” said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried,

“We do not quite understand

What changed its worth.” Swift came the reply:

“The touch of a master’s hand.”

And many a man with life out of tune,

And battered and scarred with sin,

Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,

Much like the old violin.

A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine,

A game—and he travels on.

He’s “going” once, and “going” twice,

He’s “going” and almost “gone.”

But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd

Never can quite understand

The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought

By the touch of the Master’s hand.

My sweet mommas, you are loved, you are cherished, you are worthy of it all. You’re value is not determined by your actions or experiences. It is not dependent on what others think of you. Your worth is divine. Your worth is endless. It is unconditional. Let that rise you up, encourage you and keep you. I have so so much love for you, I want you to see yourself as I see you. The divine, powerful, strong, capable woman that you are. With much love…..