There's the adage: “You can be right and dead wrong.” I am good at being right. So when I asked God how my rights might harm relationships, I immediately saw an intricate crystal castle. It fit in my hands. Imagine tiny facets, aligned crenelations, symmetrical turrets, the whole edifice an architectural perfection. And yet these “rights” were solidified and brittle. They were unmoved when anyone stood at their gates (gates which, though they swung open on smooth hinges, were too small for much to pass through).
With a sigh of resignation, I held the castle out to God: “Here, go ahead and smash it.” But instead of smashing it, He exploded it—and not in a way that it was destroyed, but that each crystal flew out of its rigid place and suspended in the air. The pieces spun and swirled, reflecting and refracting light. It was beautiful. Now they moved freely and could fit themselves to different circumstances.
It got better. The pieces started to come together. As they moved, they turned from clear to colored and solidified into the round viewfinder of a kaleidoscope. God smiled as he turned the handle, and I watched the equivalent of a stained glass window dancing. He said, “Here, go ahead and hold this instead.”
So now, instead of forcing people into my Castle of Rights, I shift the kaleidoscope. It’s amazing how different everyone looks in the colors of love.