I have no deep explorations into Scripture or theology or anything today. Just a fun story that I wrote five years ago. It amused me, and I hope it makes you smile.
“It’s such a shame,” declared a stainless steel serving spoon as it lay in the sink one day. “Just because that old dishwasher didn’t clean me properly, I have to soak and then wash again. And knowing those people, it will be back into that awful machine. What a pain!”
“I know,” added a dinner fork, “but at least they put you head-up in the dishwasher. How would you like to be upside-down in there?”
“Poor fork,” the spoon sympathized. “That dishwasher is dreadful. It makes scratches on my face, you know.”
“Scratches!” interjected a plate. “Well just imagine if you were as white as I am. Those scratches turn black. It does spoil one’s complexion!”
“Do you think that is bad?” asked a pint measuring cup. “My little cousin has endured one too many rides through the dishwasher. His measurement markings have been worn off. He is deprived of his very usefulness! It frightens me to think that I may become like him.”
“Ah,” sighed a rubber basting brush, “almost always do I get a double run-through! The dishwasher cannot get the butter from between my bristles so I must do as now and soak in hot water. Then back into that hateful machine.”
“What I despise is the fact that the dishwasher leaves soap-scum on me sometimes!” grumbled the drinking glass in which the basting brush was soaking. “And we must all endure that horrid machine just for the sake of the people’s convenience.”
“Not all of us,” corrected the spoon. “The pots and pans get hand washed. Oh, to always have one’s back massaged by soft dishcloths!” she said wistfully.
“You are mistaken,” said a frying pan from the counter above the sink. “We are sometimes put in the dishwasher. And often we are rubbed with hard plastic or scrubbing pads or, worse yet…steel wool!” The pan shuddered at the thought.
“The knives have it best,” decided the fork. “They are never put in the dishwasher, for fear it will dull them, and nothing ever sticks to them so all they get is the dishcloth.” He sighed.
“Oh, ho!” exclaimed a chef’s knife from his perch beside the frying pan. “I suppose you think it is fun to be bounced continually on your nose just because your nose happens to be sharp! Some of those girls have way too much energy for my tastes.”
“You would never imagine what odd jobs we get used for,” complained a table knife.
“Well,” stated the serving spoon, “the china dishes have no worries at all. They are so fragile that they are always treated gently. But it is worse for the silverware when the china comes out—we’re scoured to a shine to ‘match’ the dishes.”
“Yet one time a china bowl told me that all of the china dishes get lonely, they are used so seldom. Oh dear, what a sad world,” finished the glass, as someone came to clean the kitchen.
But to me, it all depends on your attitude. The dishes were focusing on the bad things and in the process they forgot the nice things, like lying on the table making a good show, the pleasure of being useful, or sitting in the cupboard talking. We use each dish for a different purpose, and each has a different lot in life.
Just so, God made each of us for a different place but all to glorify Him. We are all unique. So let us be willing vessels, praising and working for God wherever he puts us.