A Moldy Old Onion

One of my new year’s resolutions is to be more regular at blogging, and one change I want to make to the way I blog is to begin to include more personal things in my posts, rather than distancing myself by talking only about storytelling in general. As part of that, here’s something I wrote a few years back as I processed through some struggles regarding my worth.

Once upon a time, there was an onion.

It wasn’t a very attractive onion. It was old and rotting and wrinkled all over, and there was some mold growing on it. Everyone who passed it by at the market said, “That onion is worth nothing.”

And they were right.

It couldn’t be used for cooking, it had no flavor, it was unhealthy, it didn’t even look nice. The onion had no value whatsoever.


Then one day, a buyer came along. He paid fifty thousand dollars for the onion, took it, and left.

People watching nearby began to whisper to each other. “What is he thinking? That onion was worth nothing! At the very most a few dollars, but fifty thousand dollars?”

But they were wrong.

That onion was worth fifty thousand dollars.

Because someone was willing to pay that price for it.

I am worthless. I am useless, incapable of doing anything good, ugly, twisted, good for nothing whatsoever. Anyone who saw what I am in and of myself would say, “What is she? Who would ever take her? She’s not worth fighting for, loving, dying for.”

But they are wrong.

I am worth dying for.

Not because of anything in myself.

But because Someone paid that price for me.

And to Him, I am worth every bit of it.

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